Ring of Fire
by bugsfic
Summary: I fell into a burning ring of fire...
1. Chapter 1

_Companion piece to Chiaroscuro. The author notes on that story extent to this one._

_I'm reluctant to mark this story as a romance. I prefer to write relationship fics-romance makes me think of rose-petal strewn beds and slow dancing to Cole Porter. This is not that sort of story. It's two people, drawn inexplicably together and trying to figure out what that means._

_Read on..._

Hannibal Lecter regained consciousness in a rush, but he remained still, keeping his eyes closed. He was handcuffed at his wrists and ankles, spread-eagle on a mattress. The bedding had a dried lavender scent, but the sick-sweet odor of a septic leach field was nearby. Birds screeched a racket and from the cool breeze, he decided a window was open in the room. A television with the volume low played on the other side of the wall.

He opened his eyes. He lay on a double bed in a small bedroom. Remaining still so the handcuffs didn't clank against the iron bedstead, he turned his head to examine the room. The walls had been painted creamy white recently. Lace curtains fluttered at the window, obscuring the view. Across from the bed, he saw his reflection in a large mirror over a mahogany bureau.

He called out, "Clarice, I'm awake."

The TV went silent and light footfall drew close. She stood in the doorway, hanging onto the jamb.

He'd prepared a proper greeting, but was shocked into saying, "My God, what have you done to yourself?"

She reached up to pull at her cropped, dyed blonde hair. "It's a disguise."

"It's not a disguise; it's an affront."

She pulled her hand down. "When I release you, you'll listen to what I have to say?"

"Yes. I'm very curious."

She unlocked his ankles first, then each arm, moving back smoothly when the last wrist was loose. He allowed her to find a safe distance in the small room before swinging his legs over to sit.

"If you want to clean up, the bathroom's across the hall," she said.

Although she'd wiped his face clean, the stage blood had left a rubbery film. His teeth tasted disgusting and his eyes felt crusted with tar. His bladder sent an urgent message. "Thank you, I will."

"There's fresh clothes, toiletries, anything you need," she said, waving her hand around the room. "I tried to get things you like..."

He checked the drawers, selecting fresh underclothes then chose a pair of ironed slacks and a button-front shirt from the wardrobe. Clarice stepped aside to let him pass. As he closed the bathroom door, she remained in the room, going over every detail again.

Lecter assessed the tight bathroom and found it lacking. The soles of his bare feet curled up, repulsed to be touching the cracked vinyl flooring. The tub was fiberglass, giving off a hollow ring when he stepped in. The plastic shower curtain clung to him and he had to fight it off. Even the water coming from the showerhead was unpleasant, stinking of iron and underlying fecal contamination. He rejected the bottles of grocery store products and shampooed with the familiar European brand in the shower rack. A cake of sandalwood soap passed muster and he lathered twice.

As he toweled off, Clarice tapped on the door. "Don't shave."

He wiped the mirror clear and checked his facial stubble. "All right."

"I think a beard will help as a disguise. And I'll cut your hair short."

"I can manage that myself."

"If you prefer." Her voice sounded as though she were leaning against the flimsy door.

He lay his hand on it and her chuckle vibrated the wood, heating his palm.

"I haven't passed muster as a hairdresser?" she said.

He only replied, "I'll be out shortly."

Once dressed, he followed the thick scent of festering meat into an open kitchen, dining and living area. Bubbling came from a pot on the stove but he couldn't bring himself to investigate. Something also seemed to be baking in the oven, but didn't warrant his attention either.

Through the front screen door, he saw Starling curled on a porch swing under the deep eaves. She wore those curious canvas pants with many pockets and a snug tee shirt. He couldn't tell if a weapon was secreted in one of the pockets, but he wouldn't have doubted it.

He stepped out and waited for her to acknowledge him. She stared across the yard, matted with last summer's yellow weeds. Sprigs of new growth gave a green blush to the surrounding fields. There was one long, low brown barn and a few askew-leaning outbuildings.

She finally looked him over. "The clothes fit?"

"Yes, thank you."

"I better check on lunch," she said, and he followed her back into the kitchen.

The doctor allowed her to stir whatever matter was in the pot, and after she set down the spoon, slammed her into the refrigerator.

"Here we are again," he said mildly.

This time there was no wall clock ticking precious minutes off. Nor did she try to fight him. Her level gaze met his calmly. Her strong wrists were the same weight in his grasp and her pulses were as steady and slow as they'd been that night. There was the subtle scent of the lotion which had been his gift to her.

He settled his superior weight against her slender frame, less for intimidation and more to assure that she couldn't get him off balance and go for a weapon. She still didn't struggle and he became aware of her pliant body as they breathed in unison; she didn't take a breath until he exhaled.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Well, my girl?" he prompted.

"Is this necessary?" she asked.

"I'm angry."

"Why?" She seemed truly puzzled.

He raised his eyebrows. "You have kidnapped me and are holding me against my will somewhere in the countryside."

He sniffed the air. "Someplace outside the sewer lines, but probably still within the reach of the Fairfax area."

"You're the one who's got me held against my will," she pointed out, her pale eyes unreadable.

"Then fight me off," he suggested. "You can retrieve a pair of handcuffs and we'll try this again. This time, I promise not to leave you behind." He was pleased at the emotion that flashed across her face; unreadable but at least the mask had slipped for a moment.

"I thought that was a goodbye kiss. I've always taken you for a man who doesn't give second chances," she said, avoiding his questions. "So imagine my surprise to discover you were in the States, with that ID for me in your possessions."

After giving a short nod, he revealed a bit of his thinking to Clarice. "When I left the country, I continued to watch your descent from a distance. I noted you'd been removed from your beloved fieldwork with all its blazing gun battles." He smiled and dropped his gaze. "...I thought that perhaps you were reevaluating your future."

He chose not to share more. He had talked to Barney as a way to ignore the pain of tiny vessels and nerve endings trying to reconnect between his thumb and hand, even though those exchanges in the orderly's dim, claustrophobic apartment reminded him strongly of the dungeon. But the big man said one sentence in all his endless ramblings which lit up the dusty, dark light: _She told me that she thinks of you every day._

She turned out of his slackened grip and moved to the sofa. "Were you going to come strolling out of the Georgia pines wearing a linen suit and carrying a picnic basket containing another special meal?"

"We'll never know," he murmured.

He came to stand over her. "My curiosity is piqued, Clarice. What is all this?"

"I've done a lot of thinking since the Fourth of July. As long as you were free, the authorities were going to hunt you. This time, they were going to kill you."

He cocked his head. "I would count that as my problem, not yours."

He waited for her to acknowledge her motives, but she only set her jaw. "It'd not be right," she said, her rough dialect thick.

"If anything, it is I who is saving you," he suggested. "Now you're out of their reach. Those men were going to see you dead eventually."

"Why would anyone in the Justice department want to kill me?" she sputtered.

"You've made them look like fools."

"They demote people who do that, not kill them," she insisted.

He'd forgotten how stubborn she could be. But he hadn't forgotten another quality. A certain fire had been missing from her eyes since he'd seen her ten years ago-it had burned so bright when they'd met.

"What's happened to your ambition, Agent Starling? You should have been running the bureau by now, or at least Behavioral Sciences." He clasped his hands at his waist. "I must say, absconding with one of the top ten most wanted will not help your advancement."

"That ship sailed, Doctor," she said grimly. "My career's been dead for years."

He rocked back on his heels, then rested his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to spring as always. "And now you expect me to perform the kill? Rather dramatic of you."

She rose and walked past him to the kitchen. "Kill me? Why would you do that?" She removed a pan from the oven, steam rising from the yellow cake it held.

He didn't like the blankness in her voice at all; it wasn't just ambition which was gone. He wondered if she'd suffered a breakdown.

"Because that's what I do," he suggested.

"You told me once that you wouldn't kill me." Her back was still to him as she took down two bowls from a cabinet.

"I will not be kept here," he warned, stepping closer stealthily. "Not even by you."

She ignored his approach and dished out the stew. "I know you the best of anyone. I have build the ultimate prison for you."

He saw red; a deep, heavy wash of anger and fury pounding in his ears.

"I will shelter you in my protection as well as I can and supervise your activities," she told him over her shoulder. "But if you run, I'll follow and if necessary, stop you by force."

She had surprised him yet again. His anger gone, he had to laugh aloud, even if it made her flush under her freckles. She couldn't say the words: _I'll kill you_

He left that for now and leaned on the counter beside her. "Together, for the rest of our lives?" he said with astonishment.

"Yes."

"It's going to be a long rest of our lives," he said. He lowered his voice. "It'll seem as long as a thousand years."

"I wasn't doing anything anyway." she said with such self-righteous gloom that his irritation returned in a rush. He yanked her close again and expelled his next words into her face like fire.

"Ah, Jean, you're willing to be impaled on a stake? Burn in my flames? Finally become the martyr you've aspired to all these years, sacrificing yourself for the good of all humanity?" When she didn't answer, he kept pushing. "How will you keep me amused for this long life? Stimulated? Eh, Clarice? I'm a man of very complicated and varied tastes."

She spoke to the top button of his shirt but her shoulders were squared with determination. "I'm not scared of you, Doctor. If you end up killing me, so be it. I will have done what I could. You're my responsibility-" Only then did she falter.

"You're not even frightened of being eaten?"

She had regained her composure. Her flat voice resonated into his bones when she said, "You consumed me years ago. I'm dead to the world, chewed up and swallowed. If you need to eat my mortal flesh, I won't give a damn."

"Yes, Clarice, your chosen lamb has teeth," he muttered against her hair. "You've carried me off in the night, but now what?"

She twisted free and carried the bowls to the rickety dining table. "For now, we stay here. You're correct, we're in Virginia, near the border with West Virginia-"

"Was that wise? Surely they'll check all your known places."

"This is a family property, but through my mother. When it transferred to my father, they misspelled the name as Sterling. Then I took possession, but the county assessor refused to change it; what did some little girl know about such things?" She shrugged. "I took the path of least resistance. I've been paying the taxes with a cashier check. There's no way to trace me here. Never mentioned it to friends; haven't visited here in years."

Satisfied with the information, he searched for cutlery in the drawers, and finding it, handed the items to Clarice.

She nodded thanks. "I've been visiting since I was reassigned, thinking about leaving the bureau. After your return, I've set up our backstories here. You're my husband, getting out of prison soon."

"Why not father and daughter? People would find that more believable," he said, mocking.

"No one would believe us as the same genetic material. We're nothing alike."

He smiled to himself.

She added, "Besides, as husband and wife, we can keep others at a distance."

"Don't fret, my dear, I'll beat off any joker tryin' to poach on my land," the doctor said gruffly.

She hissed in reply.

He kept goading her. "And you're correct, of course. Young pretty wife, old coot with the white beard as her hubby, we'll fit right in these parts."

Yanking two paper towels from a roll by the sink, she ignored him. "The authorities will be vigilant at the international borders for at least three months before incompetence causes them to slack off. We'll wait."

With a curl of her lip, she added: I'm assuming you've got our identities set up somewhere in the world-"

"Perhaps."

She narrowed her eyes but he added nothing more. "It will be more difficult to leave the country together-" she pointed out.

"Yes. It would be safer to travel separately."

"I'm sure it would. But we'll wait until our wanted posters have faded a bit. I'm not letting you out of my sight." She raised a defiant chin.

He paced the tight room. "You could always kill me, Clarice."

She didn't reply. The emptiness in her gaze was beginning to concern him.

"As you wish. I'll play your game..For now." Shrugging in mock defeat, he held his arms wide. "On your own personal Anthrax Island."

While she turned the cooled cornbread out onto a plate, he added, "But Clarice, I'm left with one question."

"Hmmm?" she muttered, checking the table over for anything missing.

"What of my punishment?"

That got her attention. "What?"

"How can you let me walk the earth with no punishment for my past crimes? You, a sworn enforcer of the courts-" He watched her worry her lower lip with her small teeth. "Or is this my punishment?"

With studied casualness, she repeated, "What?"

Clucking his tongue to make a hollow sound, he mimed knocking on a Pexi-glass wall.

"Lunch's ready. You oughta be hungry," was her response.

Moving quickly, he pulled out her chair before she could. After a moment of hesitation, she sat. He was honored. He was sure that she rarely allowed her adversaries to be behind her.

He sat across from her and lay the paper towel over his thighs. "I have an appetite, but I'm unsure that there's food to be called dining."

She ignored his critique, and tore off a piece of cornbread, passing it to him before taking another for her.

He nibbled at the bread like an irritated rabbit. "Did you mix sand into this for a reason?"

"That's stoneground cornmeal. It's good for you."

"Any food that's described in that fashion is not good for anything." He worked on one of the stew's beef cubes, grinding down on the tough sinew with his molars. "I shall be doing the cooking from now on."

"Of course," she conceded. She sopped at her stew with a hunk of bread. "I haven't had time to learn much cookin' over the years. Feel free to take over. I tried to get some ingredients I thought you'd need-"

Leaping up from the table, he checked the cupboards and found acceptable olive oil, less than acceptable peppercorns and a round cardboard container of Morton's salt. That he nearly tossed out the window. Imported Italian boxed pasta held faint promise for a simple supper that night...he checked utensils, the freezer, and mentally began a proper shopping list.

"Look at it as a challenge for that stimulation you crave," she suggested, swallowing a chunk of carrot with relish. "Food's just fuel to me." She watched his back stiffen and took a grim glee.

"Let me show you the security precautions I've set up," she said, all business again.

She passed his room to another tiny bedroom filled with dark shapes that turned out to be televisions and computer equipment. The one small window was shielded. She pointed out what was most important to her first.

"The guns are in the lock-box," she said, motioning to a large cabinet hanging on the wall. "The code is 6912." She opened it, displaying several handguns, a shotgun and an automatic rifle.

She looked at him doubtfully. "Do you know how to shoot? I don't remember you ever killing that way."

"I can use a firearm." He wondered if she was trying to intimidate him and then why he didn't know the answer.

"I suppose you would. You know how to do everything, don't you?" She brought the computer out of hibernation. "I've used my time in the cyber division productively, learning a thing or two. They took me off your case, after-but I was able to keep an eye on the investigation with a few clicks."

"Yes, you would want to keep track of me."

"They didn't have much. But it was helpful when you got in that wreck. I was able to begin planning."

He admired the curve of her long neck as she bent over the keyboard. The repulsive shade of her hair was toned down in the dim room.

"I also managed to divert the funds from your bank account to one I set up and then cashed it out," she said.

He wiped the smirk away by saying, "Thus I shall feel free to change what disturbs me in this little dollhouse game you've created."

Her face shuttered, she went on: "There's satellite television and Internet access. A generator down in the root cellar in case we lose power."

She invited him to sit beside her and carefully showed him how to use the different computers. When satisfied he understood, she turned on all the smaller televisions.

"I've set up a basic surveillance system on the property perimeter. An alarm will sound when if it's tripped and these monitors give us some views." One showed a dirt driveway, the others only dense underbrush and fields. "I hope to get some more equipment and make it more extensive, but that depends on how long we stay."

"Yes, it will," he said slowly.

She flipped on the main TV. "Why don't you just sit a while and catch up. You look tired."

The doctor acknowledged he was suffering spells of light-headedness. "I must teach you better pharmacology," he said.

"Sorry about that," she replied with no regret. "Let's see...you enjoy my public humiliation...On MSNBC, I've been driven to do this by my father fixation...my limited sex life is being chronicled on FOX-"

"FOX."

"Of course," she said, handing over the remote control.

As she carefully closed and locked the gun case, he hooted at the commentator on the program. "That ass, James Jones, he of the doctorate printed on toilet tissue-is being allowed to pontificate."

Clarice watched a man with a great mass of facial hair, from which fat lips mumbled convoluted phrases, suggest she suffered from penis envy, leading to her gun obsession.

"Jesus," she said, and he heard the real pain in her voice. He changed the channel to CNN, where the body count from the Torres gang shoot-out was being covered. Stunned, she settled on his chair arm to watch. The doctor suppressed to urge to lie his hand on her blue-jeaned thigh.

"However did you pull that off, Clarice?"

"I'd arrested a guy named Hector Valdez in the past; been in on his interrogations," she said. "We had developed a rapport."

Lecter gave in and lightly cupped her kneecap with his palm.

Intend on the images, she didn't move away. "I knew he was in the Marian cartel; I contacted him, put on the show of the disillusioned FBI agent-"

"Which you are not in the least."

"-And said I could help him get Torres out."

The screen showed a string of gurneys coming out of the courthouse door. Her leg stiffened under his touch. The newscaster gave a death count; all Torres' men.

"Not very effective criminals," he noted.

"It helps that their weapons, supplied by me, were only loaded with blanks."

"That was a great risk," he said.

"I wasn't willing to give up every shred of my integrity for this," she said. "As it is, I'm responsible for those deaths."

He squeezed her knee until her muscles tightened in response. "Clarice, your misguided morality is terribly tiring."

She chuckled bitterly. "We'll see about that. I charged Hector a half a million dollars. It's down in the root cellar too, in the obligatory unmarked, small bills. Our piggybank. I wasn't sure how much more money you had squirreled away and if we'd be able to get to it easily."

"There's enough for our needs."

"Good. And we can add vengeful drug dealers to our list of pursuers." She added as an afterthought, "Sorry."

The story changed to a retread of their escape. They watched a grainy enlargement of background footage showing a slim, tall EMT pushing a gurney with a motionless blood-soaked victim on it. The voice over told them authorities believed this to be Starling and Lecter, leaving right under the noses of law enforcement.

Then the shot changed to Shirley Russell being chased from her front door to her car, yelling, "No comment!" over her shoulder.

"Damn," Clarice said. "She doesn't deserve this."

"What?" the doctor said with disinterest, wanting to change the station back to the inaccurate analysis of the agent's sexual drives.

"She's being crucified for a case she didn't want and a client she didn't particularly like."

"She didn't care for me, did she?" he said thoughtfully. "Suffered along for The Cause. Now, the two of you; I am certain you got along wonderfully." He gave her his cat-grin.

"You insulted her shoes, didn't you? I saw those feet, and went, oh, shit, I bet he didn't keep his mouth shut."

Suddenly, Lecter liked her immensely. "We're going to have fun, Clarice."

She started to return his smile, then her features went still. "It's going to be interesting; not sure about fun. You're right, a long rest of your life lies ahead."

"You plan to outlive me?"

"Damn straight," she said. She rose from the chair and left. He decided if he stayed in this dark room with the flickering screen, he'd fall asleep and he didn't want to do that yet.

Recalling seeing a decent bottle of Chardonnay in a cabinet, he returned to the kitchen.

Armed with a glass of wine, he followed her scent outside and leaned on the porch railing. She was walking through the tall weeds towards a barn.

"Got yourself a pet cannibal now, former Very Special Agent?" he asked the crisp spring air.

He held the heavy, oily wine in his mouth before swallowing. She hadn't done badly in the choice. It was slick and dense, and he let it roll over his palate as his tongue would caress her flesh someday.

"Worried, my little Starling? Asking yourself, whatever have I gotten myself into? Your wings flutter in a cold breeze?"

Truth be told, there was no falter in her step. She strode purposefully, ramrod straight, to the barn. She retrieved a rusted rake and attacked the weeds, tearing them loose from the damp soil and creating great piles. He enjoyed the spectacle until the wine and exhaustion overcame him, and he retired to his bedroom. There was always tomorrow.

~end Chapter One


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The doctor didn't sleep all long as he had expected. He rose after a brief nap, his mind thrumming with curiosity and interest. He began a more extensive investigation of his surroundings, starting right at his bed.

Clarice had obtained an excellent mattress, stuffed with virgin wool. His sleep wouldn't be disturbed by off-gassing from inorganic materials. Finely woven cotton sheets, rich as silk, covered it. The pillows were down. A cocoa-colored cashmere blanket, with another folded across the foot, completed his bedding. Only two other pieces of furniture had been squeezed into the tiny space, the low bureau with a cloudy mirror and a tall wardrobe, crippled by one short leg that made it wobble when he opened the door. Both smelled musty under the lavender sachets. Staple holes in the wood floor showed she'd torn up carpeting but the pine boards would still need to be sanded and polished.

He checked the other bedroom in the small house.

Starling's own room hadn't been given the same attention as his. She had a twin-size mattress bookended by a maple wood head and footboard, covered with a country quilt pieced from faded rags. She hadn't painted over the olive green and puce wallpaper yet and he winced at the clashing of colors and patterns.

He opened her narrow closet and spotted a familiar object, the cardboard box he'd first discovered in her Arlington closet. He pulled it out. In her dark condo, as she slept a few feet away, he hadn't dared to use light while he examined her possessions. Now he had light and time. It had held guns; he'd felt the cool steel and sleek oil. The object on top had been cloth; now he saw it was a folded US flag. Too new to be her father's...he put it aside and discovered an official commendation for dying in the line of duty, made in the name of a John Bringham, agent with the DEA.

Rocking back on his heels, Lecter searched his memory. This Bringham had been one of the shootout victims at the fishmarket. Why did Clarice have these things that should have been with his family? It did explain where the guns had come from, however. He'd been surprised to find them; her service pieces would have been confiscated when she was suspended. And Clarice Starling was not the sort to keep illegal firearms lying around in cardboard boxes. This train of thought caused the doctor to find another Bringham in his exhaustive knowledge of all things Starling. Her gunnery instruction at the Academy had been a John Bringham. It seemed likely that the dead man was the same. Satisfied, he returned everything to the box.

He checked her clothing. There were few pieces, all practical, ready for rough work. His fine mouth pursed at the sight of these drab cotton pants and tops. She probably hadn't brought more than the few things she could smuggle past the surveillance on her home, but she'd managed to bring the final possessions of John Bringham. He started a new file of knowledge for Clarice.

Returning to his own room, he pulled on the set of boots in the wardrobe and followed the hall that split the house into a shotgun shack, coming out onto the back screened-in porch. It held a washer, dryer and large utility sink. Starling had made good progress with the weeds, clearing all around the house. She sat on the splintered stoop, drinking a beer from a brown bottle. She must have heard him but didn't acknowledge his approach or flinch when he touched her hair. He gave a _tsk_ of disapproval at its brittle condition.

He said, "Surely another shade would have been a better choice for your disguise."

"A bad dye job is part of blending in. Wait until you see my makeup and clothes."

"I'm beginning to wonder if this is your larger plan; being surrounded by ugliness is an existence worse than prison."

Not replying, Clarice rose out of his reach and obtained a bucket under the utility sink.

"I've been thinking about Ms. Russell," she said as she clattered down the stairs with the bucket swinging. "Can we risk paying her for your defense? She's getting nothing but shit from this. They're even investigating to see if she colluded."

He shrugged, not caring about Russell's fate. "She wouldn't accept it, and it would only be seized by the government." He joined her in the yard.

"Maybe we owe a package of cash to Barney then," she said. "For all his help." Lecter turned his back like a child with something secret in his hands.

Shaking her head, she began looking around.

He peeked over his shoulder. "We?"

Not replying, she plucked a narrow green leaf protruding from the yellowed thatch and dropped it in her bucket.

"I must ask, Clarice-"

She faced him, that unreadable look on her face.

He held his hands out wide. "Again, what is this all about?"

"I tol' you. Imprisoning you hasn't worked out so well in the past. Too many unintended consequences like deaths and maiming. I'm gonna take a shot at keeping you outa trouble."

She started her search again, and found another delicate leaf.

He cocked his head. "That night...You came alone to my rescue-Why didn't you bring other authorities with you?"

"No one would have believed me-"

He held up a hand, stopping her excuses. "You were going to spirit me away as you have now, yet like any neophyte, your plan was not fully formed. But with my second arrival, you had time to plan and construct all this-" He stopped to consider the ugly little farmhouse.

"And why..." he mused. "All those whom you wish to impress are gone; your beloved Daddy, Jack Crawford, this Bringham fellow-"

Her words cracked like a whip. "Hold it right there." She stood before him, her back ramrod straight. "Let's get the ground rules set right now. We're not gonna talk about my past and I'm not gonna ask about yours. I don't wanna hear about your mamma or your first kill." She pointed at him with one slender finger. "And you are not gonna run down my father any more."

He raised his eyebrows.

"You can make fun of me all you want, but keep him outa it."

"Fine," he said slowly.

"From this point, April twelfth, 2001, that's all we're concerned with-the future."

Head held high, she started across the meadow. "Whatever your fees are for your services, they're gonna be too high," she tossed over her shoulder. "I'll pass."

He followed, drawn by the glow of her offensive hair color. Swiftly, she filled her bucket with delicate shoots. Finally, he asked, "What are you doing?"

"Picking a mess of greens for supper."

He peered in the bucket. "A mess-"

"Call it spring greens instead of a poke salad," she said tartly. "If it makes you feel better."

"Are you certain these plants are safe?"

"Sure," she said easily. "Try one."

He fished a leaf out and nibbled the tip. "Pepper-a bit like arugula."

"There you go." She checked the time by the lowering sun. "Wanna look for mushrooms? It rained two days ago."

Without waiting for his answer, she moved under the heavy cover of the forest canopy. Truly perplexed, he trailed along.

"How large is the property?" he asked, seeking more information.

"About fifty acres. I'll go over the property map to familiarize you with the escape routes and access points."

Her face lit up at the sight of a pale little cap nestled in a soft moss cradle and she plucked it gently loose.

"That will be helpful," he said conversationally. He breathed in the deep musk of the woods. Away from the house's contaminations, these were the smells of natural decay and the rebirth of spring.

"Planning your escape already?" she asked, a small smile flitting across her face like the sparrows which darted through the light shafts between the trees.

"I have no plans as of yet." He spotted the black pitted helmet of a morel and lifted it free from the deep loam. "You have intrigued me. But I assume that was your intention."

She held out the bucket for him. "I got no plan."

"I find that hard to believe." He folded his arms and regarded her. "Clarice Starling, two degrees, one in criminology and one in psychology. Perhaps you yearn for the ultimate study subject. Succeeding where no one else has, not even your mentor Jack Crawford."

She shrugged and resumed her search. "That Starling is long gone, Doctor. You didn't want to talk in Baltimore, can't see why you'd want to now. You never made any excuses for your behavior, and I hope that you'll do me the courtesy not to patronize me."

"Of course," he said. Finding another morel, he breathed in its earthy scent before adding it to her bucket.

"Something about me makes folks wanna run on about their problems," she muttered.

Outraged, he bit back several retorts. "You can expect no such weaknesses from me," he finally said. A yearning smile came across his face. "But would you be weak for just an hour...thirty minutes? I won't tell anyone. Promise."

"I told you that I'm not afraid that you'll kill me."

He examined her still, smooth features that showed no acknowledgment of his innuendo, then turned away.

He had taken the train to Rome when an endless week of rain had driven him from Florence but rain started there as soon as he had stepped off the first class car. He'd wandered the streets under a huge black umbrella, following a pull to the church of Santa Maria della Vittoria. Hat removed, wet umbrella dripping on his shoes, he raised his gaze to the massive forms of Bernini's smirking angel and impassioned Saint Theresa. The sun came out and started streaming through an unseen window. The figures floated in this natural spotlight, and he joined the marble Cornaro family, leaning from their opera boxes, to spend hours studying the young woman's rapture, wondering if anything could bring such an expression to Clarice's visage.

After nightfall, he'd slipped back in and scrambled up on the altar like a naughty boy to lay his hand on the statue's dangling foot. The white marble never warmed. He'd returned to Florence with something new to contemplate.

Once home, he had gone to a favorite haunt. He'd often been drawn to two dark figures standing out against a lily-scattered sky in the Sala dei Gigli of the Palazzo della Signori, as he preferred to call the old city hall. He compared Bernini's pale saint to golden Judith, standing strong and true over fallen Holofernes and admired the grisly energy. Yes, this had been his Clarice. Her pure, still expression in her duty...but who would play the role of invader blinded by desire? A subtle bribe to the indifferent guard and he lay his hand upon Judith's knee. The bronze heated to his body temperature within moments.

While he reflected, she continued her hunt for mushrooms, but always remained within his sight. He said, "I'm not talking about killing you, Clarice. There are fates worse than death."

She raised her somber gray eyes to his gaze and scolded him like a child: "Now you're being obvious, Doctor."

He did enjoy a challenge. "I said a thousand years would be a very long time, my dear. Surely you'll miss being close to another person-a man?"

When she said, "I won't," he had a sudden vision of her lying under the ill-fated Bringham, waiting for him to finish, collected as the lady Jew.

"Doctor, if you try to force me, I'll fight you to the death. It'll be messy, and I don't think you like a mess, at least that sort." She shook her head. "I can't believe we're having this conversation. I had believed that you have more respect for me-"

He began laughing, the deep tones echoing through their silent witnesses; the surrounding old growth grove. "Good girl, that's what I want to see." He moved to her and she held herself still as a doe. "You're the only person I've ever wanted to kill me, Clarice." If she wouldn't say it, he would.

She breathed, "I-"

He pulled her hand to his chest, laying it flat to feel his heart thumping. "My fondest wish is that after you're done, you'll cut my heart out so its last beats are in your fingers."

She tugged her hand free. "I wouldn't eat Paul's brains, and I won't take your burning heart, Doctor."

With regret, he said, "No, I suppose you wouldn't. You'd kill me with the efficiency of putting down a rabid dog, a single shot, then walk away without a backward glance."

She turned away. "If I'd wanted to kill you, I would have done it that night at Vergers-"

"Or when you woke in Paul's house. You did not choose the gun, Clarice; you chose the handcuffs; tying us together for all time."

He watched her strong jaw work, chomping back curses.

He smiled gently. "You needn't worry, my dear. I shall give you plenty of motive when the time comes."

She burst out with speech. "We've only spent ten minutes of time in each other's presence at any given time. Not even half an hour? In these ten years? How can you feel these things?"

He ignored her question. "We certainly have some catching up to do."

Her furious gaze suddenly refocused over his shoulder. In one smooth move, her bucket was dropped silently into a swell of moss and she whipped out a handgun from her pants' pocket. Grabbing him by the shoulder, she moved the doctor behind her. So outraged at her protective stance, Lecter didn't question what she had seen at first.

Her finger at his lips silenced his query.

He shifted his focus from her to listen and watch. Something was rattling within earshot, the empty sound of bones in a box. She advanced and he walked in her footsteps.

Sudden movement toward her head made her swing her weapon high, but she did not discharge it-the crow flew away, its thick black wings beating a death rattle's tune.

Clarice continued slowly. Dusk was beginning to darken the woods, but she could still make out what the bird had been feeding upon. It was the skinned remains of a small animal nailed to a dead oak tree. The crow have been pecking out the eyes; red sockets were all that was left.

"Had it been a rabbit?" she asked.

"Cat," Lecter said, pointing out the sharp incisors visible from the death grimace.

It's belly was also open, but the internal organs were gone. He did not tell her that he could detect the smell of ejactulate from the body cavity.

Still, she kept her gun raised and peered into the darkening forest. "Son of a bitch," she growled.

"This doesn't have to mean anything," he said. "It's a recent kill. A perverse welcome to the new neighbors from some yokel, unhappy at losing their hunting grounds-"

He darted to the other side of the tree. He had spotted a deadfall trap. One gray rabbit foot protruded from under the heavy board.

She finally lowering her weapon.

He carefully lifted the board and held up the slender body to examine it. "It's fresh. Fresh enough to be delicious with our mushrooms."

"Doctor, you know what that cat could mean-"

"And you know that playing at some hillbilly Nancy Drew could expose us to the authorities," he said sharply.

Slowly, she returned to her bucket. "I can't let a murderer, even if he's still just learning, go on to harm others-"

"But my dear, you're letting me live free," Lecter pointed out. "What's one more?"

For the briefest moment, intense emotion showed on Clarice's face, but in the deep shadows, he could not read its meaning. Then the mask was back in place.

Her bucket secured, she left him, not looking back. Before she could disappear in the gloom, he fell into step behind her, the rabbit's slack body swinging beside him.

~ end Chapter 2: Ring of Fire


	3. Chapter 3

_I started this story between Hannibal and Hannibal Rising being released. When the former film came out, it both validated the background I'd envisioned for Lecter and ran counter to it. That stymied me for a while, since I've always been a canon whore when it comes to fanfiction. When I decided to finish this story, I realized I was just going to have to Let That Go, and stay within the Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal film universe. My apologizes to anyone who's a greater canon whore than I._

Chapter Three:

Clarice woke as she always did, with a jerk of alertness from a sleep like death. Her grip eased from the handgun under her pillow; she held it at night as a child clutches their teddy bear, a habit she'd developed after her shootout with Jame Gumb.

Remaining still, she listened. There were only the chatter of birds outside her window. Yet somehow she knew the Doctor was still in the house.

She rose in one fluid motion and closed her bedroom door. Neither had closed their doors when they retired after a nearly silent dinner, hers because she was exhausted from the long day for his intricate mind games and his for concentration on the meal.

He'd checked the small collection of books that she'd placed in a case and selected a volume to take to bed. Too tired to think another moment, she'd gone straight to bed without any fear of the killer lying down the hall, his light still burning. He'd watched her sleep before, after all. One day down, and he hadn't killed her or anyone else yet. One day at a time...

After dressing, she used the bathroom and made her way to the kitchen.

The doctor was perched on the edge of the kitchen table with a notepad balanced on the top knee of his crossed legs, scribbling notes. He still wore his dark silk pajamas.

Without lifting his head, he said, "We must begin work immediately. There's much to be done."

"My plan is to keep a low profile," she said. "I know that's not your usual style, but I'm the professional trained in catching criminals. Perhaps I know a thing or two about avoiding detection."

"My record speaks for itself," he huffed.

"Yeah, but you've got-a flair about you. My job will be to stop such outbursts," she said dryly. Continuing as if he hadn't contradicted her, she said, "Our profiles are as such: you're a bitter ex-con, probably with an addiction or drinking problem. I'm an enabling, whiny wife. We're suspicious and paranoid; keep to ourselves. We want no one pokin' in our 'bidness'. Be sure to spout off about the 'guberment' when you have the opportunity."

"I shall endeavor to recall these details."

She looked him over and said, "Too bad you don't have any tattoos. I don't suppose-"

"No."

"All righty," she said, "Let's eat our Wheaties." He recoiled, but having already found the butter waxy and tasteless, the highly processed bread stale, and the eggs bland as water, he accepted the bowl of cereal grudgingly, although he winced as she poured non-fat milk over it in a gray stream.

He contained himself long enough for her take her first bite. He said, "I've been evaluating this dwelling; first, all this wallpaper must come down and the walls replastered-"

"Okay," she said slowly, watching him flip through his notes.

"Is there someplace in this town where we can rent a sander for the floors?"

"I'll find out. I'm going in after breakfast. I need some pruning shears. Clear back some of this brush for clear sight lines on the perimeter."

"Good, I want to see what the local markets carry. Surely somewhere in this area I can find real dairy products."

"You'll stay here," she said, avoiding his cool gaze.

He waited, and when she didn't say anything more, he said, "Clarice, I won't be treated as though I'm some beast you've managed to ensnare. We will work together; that's the only way we can hope to succeed."

"Agreed. And for us to succeed, you must stay out of sight."

"Trust me, the mysterious, never seen neighbor is much more attention-grabbing. Walking down the street doesn't gain attention. It's confidence-"

"And you have plenty of that." Rising from the table, she tossed her bowl into the sink with a determined clank.

He watched her fight her temper. "I do." He rose as well.

Turning back from the sink, she looked him over. "Fine. If you're coming, we'll need to alter your appearance. Let's cut your hair."

He sat at the kitchen table and she cropped his hair close, the yellowish locks falling around his shoulders. When finished, she looked him over critically. "Once that beard fills in-how long does that usually take?"

"About two weeks, at the most."

"Good. With a full white beard, you won't resemble any of the mug shots or few disguises we-the FBI has on file." Her cool fingers probed at his neckline, pulling his collar back out.

"As it is, it's going to be hard for you to fit in." She swept stray hairs from his shoulders and back with the lightest of touches.

Her scolding manner was beginning to tire him. "I've never had difficulty before. I have much more experience with this sort of thing than you do."

"This ain't Florence, or even Baltimore, Doctor." She came around to stand before him. "I've never told you, but your Southern accent is atrocious."

"Oh, it is."

"Yes, but I knew it amused you to mock mine, so I didn't say anything. I think we'll say you're from Jacksonville, Florida, making you sort of a Southerner. Put a slight slur on your words; don't overdo it. So that'll be Jackson-vul. Try it."

He did and she nodded, pleased.

"And there's the way you stand," she added.

He stood and glanced down. "What's wrong?"

"You stand like a dancer, your heels close together, up on the balls of your feet. Or like a cat, ready to pounce. It's gonna give folks the creeps."

As his sharp small teeth flashed in pleasure, she thought; he is a cat-contemptuous, aloof, and uncomfortably tactile when it pleases him. Too bad she considered herself a dog person.

"Rock back on your heels," she instructed. "You're a man with both feet firmly on the ground, Don-T Lambert."

"Excuse me?" His eyebrows rose.

"And I'm Beatrice," she said, taking her own pleasure in the way he had to school his features.

"After I was yanked off your case, no one bothered to talk with Allegra Pazzi, so I called her. She relayed your conversation at the opera. Remembered every word; you'd charmed her considerably, but now those words are branded in her mind by horror... Seemed like a real nice lady."

"Yes, lovely-young and still dewy."

Clarice fetched the broom from behind the refrigerator. "Mrs. Pazzi burned that Dante document."

She ignored Lecter's hitched breath. "Couldn't stand to have anything her husband's murderer touched," she added.

Lecter could still feel the fine parchment in his touch-now ashes falling through his fingertips. "That's an abomination-"

"So's guttin' her husband-" Clarice swept up his hair with furious strokes into a dustpan.

The doctor stepped back only to ease her chore. He cooled his anger with mocking words. "Pazzi was a lesson to us all; the older man, frantic to satisfy his beautiful young wife-the things he'd do."

"He wasn't simply your average corrupt cop?" she said, leaving the kitchen with the dustpan.

Lecter followed. "Only if desire is a corruption of the soul."

Starting on the back stoop, she flung his hair into the light breeze. The yellowed strands caught on the ebbies and swirled before catching on the grass. Birds would carry them off to anchor their nests.

"Such a superior attitude from a man who almost ended up as pig slop just to see some woman run," she said, her back still to him. There was no triumph in her tone.

Fingers to his lips, he considered her.

"Let me show you the outbuildings before I go," she said, heading down the steps.

As they walked towards the long, low barn, he couldn't help but point something out: "I fear it will be more difficult to remain unnoticed in this area. Rural people are notoriously nosey. And I venture these locals read the National Tattler as others cannot miss their Times."

Ignoring his lecture, she opened the barn door. "This was a tobacco drying shed. This farm raised tobacco mainly, with some corn, and a kitchen garden back of the house." They entered the dark building and waited for their eyes to adjust.

She started to poke around in the dark jumble.

He joined her, discovering a stack of wooden beehives under a pile of bike tires. Peering into an empty brown jug, he said, "A better hiding place would have been New York City, Miami, someplace large and anonymous."

"Yeah, and so many people," she said, pulling a rusty scythe from the pile and contemplating the dull blade.

"You're going to take a headcount around these parts every night?" he asked, sneering.

"Let's just say I'm keeping you from temptation."

He admired how her ivory cheek caught a sliver of sunlight coming through a crack in the weathered boards, making her freckles glow like gold dapples on water. He shook the jug that he still held. "So this is a dry county?" he said.

"It is, but that doesn't stop everyone from drinking." She headed out of the darkness.

Standing in the barn's doorway, he contemplated the wide field. "If we plowed under these weeds, we could put in a substantial garden," he suggested.

Plucking a fresh green stalk of grass, she twirled it in her fingers. Believing he was serious, she raised her eyebrows in surprise. "See, you can find something to keep yourself stimulated."

He realized he was up on his tiptoes. Forcing his weight back on his heels, he said, "Yes, perhaps I may find something."

As they walked back to the house, he listed everything he felt they needed to live comfortably. It was a long list: "We must install a water filter as well as a water softener. That divan is simply horrible; the springs died years ago. And did you know that chair opens to make its own footstool?"

"Yes, it's called a Lazy-boy."

"It's all in a name, I must say."

"Listen, we're just gonna lay low here until we can leave the country. Who knows when that will be. No need to redecorate or put in a garden-"

He ignored her. "And although I appreciate the stereo system, I'll need a greater musical selection. If we can drive to Arlington-"

"More like Knoxville, when we do go on shopping trips, which won't happen for at least until your beard has grown in," she said patiently.

"Then I'll order some things online-"

"Better not, the postman will wonder why a couple of meth-heads get so many boxes from Amazon."

He was really back on his heels now, stomping ahead, angry. "Your prison bars are strong, Clarice."

"I'm asking you to wait a week and be cautious. You can't do that?"

He slammed through the door ahead of her, so she took that for a no. She went into her bedroom and applied makeup and dressed as Beatrice, downtrodden wife. When she came out, Lecter sat at the table, dressed for his role as well. Obviously, he wasn't going to accept her refusal to take him. She went back into the bedroom and came out with a sweat and oil-stained orange baseball cap. "Here," she said. "Put this on and keep it on."

He examined it in horror and gingerly pulled it down over his clean hair. "Was this a possession of our dearly departed Agent Bringham?"

The second time that Lecter had evoked the name of a man who should be a stranger to him. "How much do you know about John?" she asked through clenched teeth.

When he said, "Enough," she hated him for the first time.

She chewed on her words: "Don't you talk about him; you didn't know him, nothin' about him, so keep your smirky little remarks to yourself. And no, I wouldn't give you nothin' of his to wear."

"So passionate," he murmured. "How unfortunate you couldn't show him that passion while he lived." She swung at him blindly and he barely managed to step out of the way.

"I'll only tell you one more time. Don't say his name again," she warned, coiling her arm back at her side.

He said, "All right," and she didn't believe him for one damn minute. She slapped through the screen door, letting it slam in his face.

Following, he catalogued her transformation. Her faded black leggings made her usually lithe limbs scrawny, pinned up on bony ankles. She wore canvas sneakers without socks, worn down at the heels. Her oversized sweatshirt gave her a billowing pumpkin shape from the thighs up. The pale hair, blackened eyebrows and blue eyeshadow reminded him of a clown's makeup. Not that he looked any better. He'd selected stained twill work pants, a faded denim shirt and a sports jacket advertising a stock car race team. The cap completed the ensemble.

She fetched the car out of the shed being used as a garage, and he heard it coming before it appeared. Like her Mustang, it rumbled with a deep throb. The dusty hood had twining flames licking up towards the windshield.

"Dear God," he said, leaning in the driver window. "Just when I thought this couldn't get worse."

"Don't knock it until I've gotten her up over eighty," she said, satisfied. "It's a '78 Camaro; we'll be the envy of every sixteen year old boy in the county."

"What more can I ask for?" he said, going around to settle into the passenger seat.

She pulled two rings out of the ashtray. "Here, put this on for public appearances." As he slipped the gold band on, she put hers on as well. He imitated the sound of locking handcuffs, but Clarice simply shifted the car into gear and drove off.

"If you want more do-dahs for our digs, you'll have to start goin' to tag sales-and there's an auction at the feedlot every Saturday morning." Already relishing her country speech patterns and the responding flickers of his facial tics, Clarice allowed herself to enjoy the image of him tapping his nose to bid on an old floral print sofa.

Lecter listened with only a small area of his attention. They passed a farm with a milk cow chewing grass in the front pasture. No one would keep a cow unless they did something with the milk, so it was worth a visit. The farm's dirt drive was marked by a rusted, beaten in mailbox with faded numbers, but he was sure he could find it again.

He said, "It seems you get all the...do-dahs you deem necessary. That satellite dish for instance-"

"That fits right in, trust me. These folks will have a big ol' dish setting right next to their outhouse. Got their priorities straight," she said with a grim chuckle. Trying to make the peace, she added, "We'll check the Piggly-Wiggly; surely they've got some food you can use until we can visit a big city."

Her determined attempt to cheer him up kept Lecter from visibly shuddering at the idea of any grocery named for a gyrating swine.

They started at the seed and feed store, a place of many new and mysterious smells to the doctor. Already conceding defeat on the garden, Clarice filled flats with vegetable starts and picked out a few seed packets.

But when she glanced up, Lecter had disappeared. She'd been controlling her tension well to this point, but now she moved through the dark aisles in a panic. She found him under a shed row, examining the fowl. His light eyes were bright in the dim.

"What are you thinking?" she said, even as she suspected.

"Fresh eggs. Roasted duck breast. Turkey for Thanksgiving."

"We're not going to be in here in November, right?" she said.

He pursed his lips. "We might as well be prepared for all possibilities." He peered into the cages. "We'll need laying hens, some pullets, and a rooster, naturally."

"Do you have any experience raising poultry?" she asked.

"What can there be to know? Water, feed, clean beds."

"I should have realized you'd know about fattening up feed animals."

As if she hadn't spoken, he went on. "A few ducks, and perhaps a goose or two-"

"You're not going to attempt foie gras, are you?" she said but regretted it when a speculative look came over his face. "Can we please wait until I can build some runs? Scrub down the barn? Since I do know how to properly care for livestock."

She sighed with relief when he tipped his head in agreement.

They filled the car's trunk and backseat with their purchases. "We should have brought the van," Clarice said. On the drive to town, she'd told him how she'd had a stolen but untraceable van waiting outside of Richmond and had transferred him from the ambulance for the drive to their current location. There was no way that their route had been followed.

"I doubt we'll be picking up too many things at the market," he said gloomily.

As she drove to the grocery store, she reflected that he may call her a martyr, but he knew how to play the role with verve. He turned out to be right, however, as they walked down the store aisles pushing their cart with its one rattling, disobedient wheel.

"Good God," he said. "What are our other options?"

"There's a Walmart out by the freeway."

"Answer me this, C-Beatrice," he said. "How can these people be surrounded by this natural bounty, a soil capable of birthing gracious fruits, and apparently live on deep fried objects and replicas of pizzas cooked on cardboard."

"They're bone-ass tired, poor and uneducated," she said with none of his cynicism. "It's a hell of a lot of work to produce food."

He reminded her, "We're not doing anything else." He read through the ingredients on a bag of pork rinds. "Perhaps you cannot understand, since food is merely fuel to you, but creating wonderful meals is worth the labor-if I even dare call it labor."

"We'll see if you're singing that tune after you've shoveled a few forkfuls of chicken shit," she said. She waited while he picked over the 'fresh' fruits and vegetables. The only local meats were pork products and the doctor expressed no interest in either hocks or hams.

They dropped their few meager bags off at the car and walked to the hardware store in the same shopping center. A young man lounging outside by the wheelbarrows took the slow route looking over Clarice's lanky frame with his bulbous eyes.

Lecter immediately shoved his cap back on his head and barked, "What you lookin' at, fucker?"

"Whaa?" the lank man said. His Adam's apple wagged nervously.

"Now, Don-T," Clarice whined, grabbing Lecter's arm and tugging with real intent.

"He whad lookin' at you," the doctor growled. Although playing a part, he enjoyed this role enormously. Perhaps he should assault this lout-he grabbed the young man's wrist, feeling the thin, malnourished bones bend in his grasp.

Clarice got Lecter's hand and twisted his thumb just enough to cause his breath to hitch. She said, "Baby, it whad nothin'. Let him be."

Staring at her, the doctor tossed his words over his shoulder to the young man: "You gonna stop lookin' at my wife?"

"Yes sir, yes sir, indeed," his victim babbled. "Please-"

Lecter let go of the young man, Clarice released him and they entered the store as though nothing happened. She muttered in his ear, "What was I saying about flair?"

"And I said, walk down the middle of the street. Trust me, it works." Lecter adjusted his cap low again, and smiled viciously at the worried clerk behind counter. "You all gots any sanders? For flo's?"

"Nope...sir. But Harold over at the Rise and Shine Floors does. Jus' give him a call."

"Good to hear," Lecter said. "Got water softeners? Our well water stanks."

"Sure, out back."

"I'll be by ta'marra to pick one up, an' a water filter."

The clerk pondered this much business and made careful notes with a stubby pencil.

Infinitely patient, Lecter said, "An' plaster?"

"Aisle three," the clerk said, motioning with his red plump hand as though shooing them away.

The doctor appreciated his lack of customer service and went off exploring. He still kept watch on Clarice as she filled a basket with tools. He could see the young man from the altercation watching her through the dirty window. Was it going to be necessary to harm this idiot in broad daylight? When he took a step toward the doorway, the man caught his eye and disappeared out of view. Satisfied, Lecter returned to shopping.

He chose several bags of dry plaster and the proper tools for application. Clarice had exchanged the basket for a rolling cart. "Plum shame we got more in the cart here than in the grocery," she said. She shook her head when she saw his selections. "Do you know what you're doing?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "We'll contact this Harold fellow after the walls are finished. I think the plastering shall create quite a mess."

"Yah think?" she said dryly. "Let's get out of here before you cause another scene."

He followed her closely back up the aisle so he could murmur in her ear. "I shall use the monastery of San Marco as my model. After all, we will lie in our cells each night, deep in contemplation, hmmm? Once I have a proper base, I will paint scenes for our instruction and meditation, just as Fra Angelico did."

Once back on the farm, Clarice could relax. She decided to examine the tractor she'd noticed in one of the outbuildings. Although rust and dirt covered, it seemed that it could be brought back to life. She gathered the necessary implements, a can of gasoline, and some motor oil. Lecter came to watch.

She told him, "It looks bad, but I think it'll run."

"Certainly," he said confidently, rolling up his sleeves to help.

"Where'd you learn about engines?" she asked after he proved to be of assistance.

"Why do you ask?" he said.

"What do you mean?" she shot back, puzzled.

"Surely you've read and reread my file."

"It didn't mention your grades in high school shop class." Wrenching the nut loose from the oil pan, she added, "And I doubt they let you use tools in any prison work program."

He remained silent.

"You've always driven fine automobiles, I know that. I just can't see you changing the sparkplugs."

"Your mother's family lived on this farm..." he said, leadingly.

She squinted at him. She'd warned him about trying to dig into her past-

"Yes, my mother married up." She replaced the oil pan plug and filled the pan.

Two could play at this game. "You wouldn't have had a shop class; you didn't go to a public high school; you went to the Wentworth Academy."

"That's correct." He said, "Your mother died when you were young. Had you ever visited this farm as a child?"

"The first visit I remember, we all came together. She was dead the next summer, and it helped my father for me to come here while school was out." She tested the fuel line. "Malcolm and Elise Lecter weren't your natural parents, were they? Your file only said you immigrated from Europe in 1947 as a refugee to be adopted, not where you were from."

She took grim satisfaction that he was the first to break when he said: "What are you up to, Clarice?"

He made a show of peeking under the tractor. "Where, oh, where, is your questionnaire? Is your sense of duty so strong that you will see those papers filled in, ten years on? Jack Crawford's dead, Clarice, there's no one left to impress."

She wiped her hands carefully on a cloth. "You didn't like that, me bringing a list of questions for you to respond to. It was an insult."

His eyes reflected the deep-blue sky; the afternoon was waning.

"You ate the census taker; that image has come back to me a number of times."

"Of course," he murmured.

"Not for the reasons you think. I wondered, why the census taker? What had he done? He'd tried to quantify you. To count you. To check one single box to classify you-"

"Tell me about your mother, Clarice. You rarely mention her. Your world centers around your father, the sun, but what of the moon?"

"My mother was very beautiful; not plain like me."

He grunted in defiance.

"She seemed much too lovely to have come from-" She waved a helpless hand about. "This. Hair like corn silk, I remember that best. Not just a pretty country girl, she was exotic. Slanted green-gold eyes, high cheekbones, a tiny bowed mouth, like something from a magazine."

He watched the emotions on her face. Instead of fondness or rapture, there was discontent. He probed further. "Was she a simple creature? Lacking in intelligence?"

"I was young, I couldn't judge."

"Try."

"I think so. She sang along with the radio, to people like Helen Reddy and Karen Carpenter." Clarice's finely-chiseled, Renaissance mouth curved down. "She watched soap operas and called them her stories."

"Your father must have been enchanted by her beauty though," he said and saw the contempt, open and clear. "How like a man, eh? How weak of him-"

"Why don't you want to be counted, Doctor? Are you so unique, so special, that you are indefinable? What a strange attitude from a psychiatrist, a science that seeks patterns in human behavior."

"And what of your mother's parents? I assume they were salt of the earth, good, simple folks-"

"My grandfather was an alcoholic. My grandmother was prone to depression and outbursts of rage, probably worsened by my grandfather's condition."

Darkness closed in, but he didn't notice. "And your mother's temperament?"

"She was emotional. I remember that. She'd fuss at my father, cry often, laugh too much, too loudly sometimes."

"Did she commit suicide?"

"I don't know, she was gone one day and I was told she was dead." She took one deep breath and turned the engine over. It roared to life. She raised her voice to say, "You must have felt as though you owed the Lecters a great deal; they'd delivered you from war-torn Europe."

"Lecter was impotent, a pompous neurotic who publicly blamed their infertile marriage on his wife; Elise was too cowed to correct him, she'd rather accept open contempt from all her peers." He asked, "Was your grandfather violent with you? When he drank?"

Satisfied, she turned the tractor off and packed up her tools. The doctor thought she wasn't going to respond, but she said, "No, never. He expressed no emotion whatsoever. Love, hate, nothing. Even in his drinking, there was no response but to finally fall into sleep." She began walking through the encroaching darkness towards where moths swirled around the burning porchlight; Lecter trailed behind.

"Your parents must have been very proud of your academic accomplishments," she said as she mounted the porch steps. "Had they pushed you?"

"No, the father was a glorified shoe salesman, regional director of sales for Buster Brown. He did not understand my need for knowledge." He asked, "How did you cope with these visits into a traumatic atmosphere?"

"I tried to understand their roots."

He paused for a stride to visualize a small child, notepad in hand, recording her grandparents' behavior.

"I asked granddad about his life and he told me. How he loved the hills where he lived, loved the land and farming and what had ruined his life."

"And that was?" He mounted the stairs too and blinked in the bright light.

She took the higher step and turned, forcing him to remain below her.

"He'd missed the war; too young. But he was drafted right at the end in '45 and was shipped over to Europe. There he was a guard at a camp for refugees. Some were Jews from the concentration camps, others displaced persons, folks picked up on the roads just trying to get home-everyone, all nationalities and backgrounds, plucked up and tossed in together."

Lecter stood very still and she saw nothing in his face. She pushed on. "Among those millions of people, one little boy wasn't so unique; a single life meant nothing. How could you care for others if no one ever cared for you?"

He snorted. "You don't care for people any more than I do."

Shocked, she whispered, "I care about people."

"On, yes, you care 'about people,' but do you care for any individual, despite their flaws? Like the religious martyr that you are, you strive to save humanity, not a single human."

She didn't have time to think before she spit out, "You're still breathing." He thought of the gun she left on the hall table when she joined him for dinner with Paul. He tipped his head in mock gratitude.

Her voice quaking, she returned to her original attack. "Were you ever in one of those camps? Because if you were, it would show this is a small world, don't you think?"

Lecter recalled the guards' faces; red chapped, with thick cheekbones, the misshapen teeth from which coarse speech stuttered-offering children candy to come behind the housing units for a just a minute- He'd seen these faces half a dozen times in their shopping trip today.

He finally spoke. "I told you that you owe me one more answer, Clarice, long ago. Remember?"

She did, she'd never forgotten, she thought of it every day, but waited, making him say it again.

"What do you do with your anger, my girl?"

"I remember that we weren't going to talk about the past." She entered the house, leaving him on the stoop until he followed.

In the kitchen, she tossed herself onto a rickety chair and he did as well. There was no Pexiglass between them this time as they stared each other down. A low voice in the back of her mind reminded her that she should be careful but she didn't care.

The alarm system, set to sound like a ringing phone, went off for the first time. The tension was broken; replaced by another. They hurried to the close-circuit monitors. The screens showed a black and white painted car pulling up in front of the house in the dusk.

"Doesn't have any official markings," she observed.

"Expecting company?" the doctor asked.

"No." She opened the gun case and chose a Glock to tuck into the waistband of her jeans, pulling her dusty oversized sweatshirt over the bulge. She motioned to the door. "Best make ourselves neighborly."

Lecter retrieved his dirty ballcap and tugged it down low. He joined her on the porch. He saw her hand flinch at her waist when an uniformed man got out from behind the wheel.

The visitor walked with the stiff gait of a police officer, constricted by the bullet-proof vest, wide thick belt and non-breathing fabric. The man wore none of that, so the doctor assumed his underwear had ridden up his ass crack.

Lecter said, "Careful," when he realized the visitor wasn't in a uniform, but a matching brown polyester shirt and pants.

The man peered up at them, gave a quick, fake smile, and asked, "How yah doin'?"

He introduced himself as Sam Brocker while only looking at Lecter, giving Clarice the opportunity to examine him at leisure. He appeared middle-aged, with his paunch, bristling mustache and estrogen-laced, prissy voice. But she determined that he was only in his twenties as he droned insincere chit-chat: welcome to the area, how he was a deacon in the fellowship of Christ's Fire Holy Church, right down the road, believed in reaching out to new families-he took in their wedding rings with approval. Were they blessed with children?

Lecter had lain his hand on the back of Clarice's neck, and gave it a squeeze. "Jus' my bride," he said.

Sam finally gave Clarice, one brief, contemptuous glance. She could read his mind right then, poring over the Old Testament pages about the sinful women, dragging good men down with their temptations. She was surprised to notice a wedding ring on his own hand, then remembered some of her own desperate girl cousins. Yes, there was at least one woman who would have married him.

"Now, Don-T," she drawled. "Don't be talkin' like that to the reverend."

"I'm not a minister, ma'am. But I do wish to invite both of you to join us in fellowship this Sunday-"

Lecter broke in. "I'd enjoy that, certainly." Gleefully, he added, "I found Jesus while I was in lock-up and now that I'm free at last, Lord be praised, I cannot turn my back on Him."

Sam garbled.

"After all," Lecter continued, "If it weren't for Him, I wouldn't be right here among all you." He looked down to Clarice. "Ain't that right, honey?"

"Don't forget my role, baby," she said sarcastically.

"Pardon me," he said apologetically. "The love of a good woman is indeed a lifeline, if you chose to grab it. Wouldn't you agree, Sam?"

Sam pushed up his steel-rimmed glasses up on his sweaty nose. "A he'pmate is a blessing indeed."

"But we can't be letting them get above their rightful place. Isn't that so, Sam?" Lecter said.

Their visitor smiled gratefully at finding a like-minded soul.

Clarice slung her arm around Lecter's waist, burrowed two fingers under his shirt, and pinched a bit of tender skin. He answered her with a quick peck on the cheek. Silence fell over the little group.

Sam's features pinched; he sensed their mocking. He made his leave, gathered up his thin-veneered dignity and waddled back to his decommissioned police cruiser.

When he drove away, Lecter said, "He reeked of stale sex."

"That_ is_ strange," Clarice said. "He looks like the sort who'd scrub his dick off the second after he came. Wash away the taint of sin." She took a sick pleasure seeing the shock in the doctor's gaze at her language.

Recovering from his surprise, Lecter shrugged. Any anomaly gave him something to think about for a few minutes, but in the church deacon, he found nothing of long-term interest. "I've discovered that most people here have a lingering odor," he said. "Perhaps it's something I'll become accustomed to."

Clarice realized she still had her arm around the doctor. She stepped back. "I'll start showering twice a day," she said tartly.

He continued to watch the now empty drive. "Your scents are never offensive."

She was still feeling in a smart-mouth mood. "I'll take that as your greatest compliment," she said as she headed back to the kitchen.

"Let's get supper on, doctor," she called to him through the screen door. "No rest for the wicked."

"Certainly not," he agreed, joining her.

end ~ chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four:

In the morning, the doctor rose before Starling again. He looked in on her from her bedroom doorway. She was still deep in sleep. After these first two days, he now knew it took her at least an hour to enter a deep state. She hovered near sleep, tossing and sighing, until she finally slipped over. Through the night, her breath would catch, hold, rapidly thump in and out. He considered suggesting she leave on a light for her night terrors, but doubted she would take the advice. She may not be afraid of him, but she was certainly scared of the dark.

Returning to his room, he dressed in work clothes and strolled down their drive to the country road. The farm with the milk cow had been the second driveway past theirs. The first driveway dead-ended into a wall of kudzu vines. Clarice had told him this farm was abandoned but they should keep an eye for marijuana growers or meth labs taking over. It amused him to imagine their role as neighborhood watch.

At the next drive, he stood a moment, letting his senses open. Clarice was right; he must be cautious. There was more at stake than his own entertainments now. The cow's acidic odors were powerful, but there was also waste and decay-the smell of human shit and dusty bones. He walked quickly under the trees, falling into darkness.

The barn came before the house. At the sagging door, he waited for his eyes to adjust, but took inventory. An old woman was milking the cow. She smelled of potato starch and used Bengay regularly. There was another woman in the dark-not a woman, but a girl. She wet her bed; he could smell the sour urine on her skin. Repulsed by the child's lack of sanitation, he focused on the old woman.

"Excuse, ma'am," he said. He dared use a more formal tone than his role demanded. "If I may interrupt-"

"Who dat?" croaked a rasping voice.

"My name is Don-T Lambert," Lecter said, wincing to himself. "I'm your new neighbor, down the road a piece."

"Yep," she said, "I seen new folks was about."

He sensed the child coming closer. Sunlight from the wall's cracks cut bars across her lumpy, immature body. Although he had no interest in gaining her acquaintance, he said, "Hello."

The young teen gave off a snorting sound, perhaps meant as a greeting.

The old woman said, "Speak up, child." She creaked up from her stool, slapping the cow's strong flank. When the girl said nothing more, she introduced herself as Mrs. Ava Kreet and her granddaughter, Michelley. The doctor expressed delight in meeting them, but his attention was on the bucket of milk. Would Mrs. Kreet please sell him some? Did she make butter?

She exchanged puzzled looks with the moon-faced girl. "What you want this for? The sto's got all you want."

"No, it does not, ma'am. You have exactly what I want."

"I 'spose I could part with some milk, an' I do make butta," Mrs. Kreet said. "Not much, the boys don't like the taste; they prefer margarine."

"Such a shame," Lecter said, hating these men before encountering them. "Feel free to make more."

He didn't have to wait long before meeting the other Kreets. "Who dat?" Two pipe thin silhouettes stood in the doorway. The doctor wondered if these people always started conversations this way.

Mrs. Kreet called out, "It's one a' the new folks," and Lecter stepped forward, reminding himself to stomp down solidly.

The two men were obviously father and son, both equally ugly. He recognized the boy, Dwayne, as the young man who leered at Clarice the day before.

"Pleased to meet you," Lecter said, shaking the hand of Earl, the father. His fingers were bent from some manual labor, the skin stained tobacco brown with deep grooves black from filth. It took all of Lecter's control not to wipe his hand afterwards. Then he addressed Dwayne. "We've already had to pleasure, right?"

Dwayne sneered back at him and spit a long brown stream of juice which landed beside the doctor's boot. "'Spose so." He made a grand production of looking around Lecter. "Where's that purty daughter of your's?"

Lecter spit his own saliva close to the younger man's feet. "You must have missed it. That's my wife."

"Lucky feller," Dwayne said.

His grandmother watched him with narrowed eyes. "You been chasin' tail again?"

Dwayne shoved his raw-boned hands deep into the pockets of his dirty jeans. "Ah, Granny," he whined.

Lecter noted the outline of his penis was thin and short when he pulled the fabric taut.

"I'm sure he won't do it again," the doctor said. "Wouldn't be neighborly."

This seemed to be a good parting junction, but he hadn't counted on Southern determination. The menfolk wandered off, but Granny held him there with offers of powdered sugar donuts, strong coffee, a taste of her butter-when she heard that he planned to raise chickens, she offered some of her own best layers, for a good price.

By now she'd led him to the ramshackle house. Two young pregnant women, appearing to be barely older than Michelley, lounged across a truck's bench seat on the porch. They both pulled themselves upright with Mrs. Kreet's footfall on the steps, but neither was introduced to Lecter, and he could not guess their relationship to the rest of the Kreets.

Mrs. Kreet ignored them too and begin questioning Lecter as she poured him a cup of coffee which was wickedly dark and strong. "You all related to the Nortons? Never heard of that place sallin'."

Her sharp eyes were pale like Clarice's, despite the whites being webbed with red veins.

"It was a private sale." He forced a deep swallow of coffee down, trying to empty the cup.

"'cause Earl was hopin' to get that back wood-"

"He and the boys been huntin' out that way?" Lecter asked.

Her sly smile was much like Clarice's too. "Maybe."

"They should be careful. We gonna be doin' shootin' now and then," he said as a warning.

She tipped her head. Despite the mass of wrinkles weighing down her skin, the bones were good on her skull and the pure white hair was pulled down in a simple bun.

"Sug Norton left no direct kin," she mused. "There was a girl child, niece I think, but she died near like thirty years ago-"

Lecter gulped the grounds-filled dregs of his cup and started to rise.

"Sug was my cousin on my Momma's side. I'd hoped he'd offer the land up to us, but he was always tight with his sister-Her girl's husband got the property, if I 'member right..."

"As I said, a private sale," the doctor said firmly, hoping that he'd thwarted the old woman.

Stymied for the moment, Mrs. Kreet next offered him had some canned tomatoes left over from last summer, the boys preferring french fries for their vegetable-he finally escaped, an hour after coming down the drive, with a bucket of milk and two jars of tomatoes under his arm.

oxoxo

Clarice woke with her usual sudden rush of consciousness. This morning she did not find the doctor perched like a gargoyle on the table. She was immediately concerned, hurrying to check his room and the porches. She found a note taped to the gunbox, written in his difficult handwriting.

'My dear Clarice, I have stepped out. I shall return shortly.'

First she checked the guns; none were gone. Then the kitchen drawers-one filet knife was missing. Blind with worry, she ran to the garage, but both vehicles were there. She drove to the end of the driveway when she spotted him coming with his parcels.

"Where the hell did you go?" she demanded to know through the car's window.

"I paid a call," he said, carefully placing the bucket on the passenger floorboards. "To line up fresh dairy products. I've also secured a set of laying hens and a rooster as well."

Clarice turned the car around and pulled up beside him. "Then I guess I better get the runs ready," she said, spraying him with gravel as she roared back to the house.

True to her word, she was at work in the barn when he finished strolling down the drive. His milk sat on the front stoop beside the jars of tomatoes. Let her play farm maid, he thought, he'd start on the plastering.

When Clarice came in, hot and sweaty from her work in the barn, she found the living room dusty and in disarray.

She tried talking sense to Lecter: "Doctor, you're not really gonna do this, are you? We will be leaving in a matter of months. Why in the world should we turn some farmer's shack into mansion for the next group of squatters who will come through?"

He didn't look away from his task of tearing loose wallpaper. "Because I live here and I shall not be surrounded by ugliness, even for a few months."

"Fucking Christ," she said. "It's gonna make a damn mess. For days."

"There's only these few rooms. It'll be finished before you know it."

"Leave my room out of this," she said. "I'll paint over that paper and be fine with it." She watched him shove the wadded wallpaper into a Hefty bag and shook her head. She wasn't going to help him with this. She tried again. "What's so important about having a smooth plaster surface?"

"I will need canvases to paint upon."

"What the hell?" she groaned.

He smiled. "Yes, my dear. Remember, I told you that I shall decorate these walls like the monks' cells of Santa Croce." Lecter stepped closer and she bent back like a willow. "Like those celibates, we may lie in our beds at night, diverting our attentions with pure, ecclesiastical thoughts."

Clarice stormed out, back to her tasks in the barn.

oxoxo

She resisted for a few days. First she plowed an acre of the old fields up and harrowed, then planted her seeds and the delicate starts. She did careful pruning on the old fruit trees, encouraging the few blooms on their tortured, hoary limbs. The chicken runs were completed within a day and the birds settled into their new home. Her bedroom remained relatively clean, but the rest of the house was a mess from dust and the whining miter saw which appeared after another trip to the hardware store. The only thing to do was help to get the job finished as quickly as possible.

At least the doctor appeared to be a man who could follow directions. He carefully referred to instructions that he'd downloaded, measured twice and cut once, and used his safety goggles. Only when she watched him slice through the lath boards with the saw did she find herself flinching. His reattached left thumb held the board steady for the blade while she kept the end of the long piece level. Seeing his thumb so close to the whirling saw, she had to address the issue that had been bothering her for a while.

When he had finished the cut and they carried the length to the wall, she asked, "Just out of curiosity, how did Barney get a surgeon for you? I know they checked every hospital and doctor in a hundred mile radius."

The doctor smiled and shot the nails into the lath with a nail gun, another acquisition. "Barney is quite useful," he said. "He's very observant. He had noticed that a married plastic surgeon at his hospital had picked up a nasty habit, or rather, two nasty habits. Fucking a surgical nurse and using pilfered drugs with her."

"You let this man operate on you?"

"It was unnerving, true. I wouldn't allow them to put me completely under. First because they had no proper anesthesiologist, second, because his specialty is facelifts for older socialites, not vein and nerve reattachment. Then there was the fact they were strung out and fearful." Finished with the nailing, he wiggled his fingers as if in wonder.

She captured his hand and turned it palm up to check the scar. "You made a clean cut, considering I was trying to pull your hand away."

He fought the urge to brush free the tendril of hair clinging to her cheek, not wanting to disturb her examination. He flexed the thumb. "I cut at the joint, making it a fairly routine reattachment. I have full movement-"

"Can you still play?"

"Not well, but I hope for improvement with practice." He scanned the small living room. "If we got a piano, I could see how it's progressing."

"Yeah, that'd be great," she said witheringly. "Let's order a Steinway-" He flinched at that brand name, "-and have a piano tuner come out to set it up."

She looked around too. "There's no room; don't even think about it."

"We shall find a solution," he said.

She had left her hand resting across his palm and he stroked it with his thumb. "I have area of extra-sensitivity, here-" He smoothed her own thumb with the left side of his. "And no sensation here." He turned the thumb and slid up a protruding vein along the back of her hand.

"I tried to stop you," she murmured and he leaned in closer to catch her words.

"It was something I had to do," he said and she finally pulled her hand away. "We owe Barney for more than my thumb, don't we?"

It was her turn to slyly smile. "Reaching out to him was a risk, but I hoped he had something that would bring us into the same room. How did he get his hands on that video-did he tell you? Our conversation was brief and fraught with tension. He only promised to try and set up a situation."

"He did mention that he'd dropped by Verger's that night. I assume the real story is that Verger hired him to 'nurse' me. Mason had planned to keep me alive for a day or so, milk as much anguish as possible."

When she winced, Lecter added softly, "Foolish man thought he could make me cry and beg like some five year old he was sodomizing."

"What's wonderful about pressuring Barney is that you don't have to be specific," she said. "He's guilty of something all the time, so vague threats go a long way. And damn if I wasn't right this time."

Lecter changed the subject: "What sort of things did Mason Verger say to you?"

She began picking through the pile of lumber, seeking the right length for the next piece. Distracted, she said, "What?"

"You said that you met Mason. Barney mentioned that Verger had quizzed him extensively about you and our relationship."

She lay the wood down. "I figured he was up to something the minute I met him. That and Paul lurking right outside the door as I was told to go to Verger's estate. James Bond, Paul was not."

"Certainly not," he said.

"Mason told me about his disfigurement, how it happened. In graphic detail," she said. Lecter's cool blue eyes showed no shame; not that she expected them to. "I'm not sure, perhaps he hoped to make me feel sorry for him."

The doctor settled onto the edge of the drop cloth-draped kitchen table. "That sounds like him. What else?"

"Nothin' much," she said stubbornly.

"Clarice-"

"You gonna finish this up by supper? 'cause I'm tired of plaster dust in my food." She began sorting through the toolbox in a determined manner.

He stared at her bowed head but when she did not raise it, nodded to himself and returned to his task.

oxoxo

The doctor gave the living room wall one last pass with his trowel. All the plastering was finally finished. Clarice watched from the doorway, shaking her head at his folly.

"Now it will need to set," he said.

"In this humidity, that'll take a few days." She wiped her damp bangs off her forehead. "Can't believe it's this hot and muggy already and it's only May. I forgot what a hellhole it can be back here in the hills."

Lecter washed his hands at the kitchen sink. "Your lack of optimism has become trying." He dried his hands and rolled down his shirt sleeves. "What are your plans for the rest of the day?"

"I noticed asparagus has sprouted out back of that far tool shed. There must have been a patch put in by my great-uncle. Thought I'd pick some for dinner."

He smiled in delight. "May I join you?"

She shrugged and turned away. "If you want."

He bit back another comment on her dour nature, and found his ball cap.

"If they're still young, we could bury some stalks and make white asparagus," he suggested, following her through the swaying waist-high weeds.

"Does it taste any different?" she asked, glancing back at him.

"That's not the point," he said tersely.

She chuffed a laugh and kept walking, her bucket swinging at her side.

After they'd gathered about two dozen stalks, she discovered a horseradish plant growing against the rotting shed wall.

"Have to give it some more time, though," she cautioned. "Let the leaves get larger before chopping off any of the root."

"I shall wait," he promised.

The forest's trees came to the edge of the outbuildings. Clarice wandered toward the dark cover. He noticed that she always seemed to be drawn to woods.

He let her go ahead and picked some wild greens which were thick and lush around the asparagus trench. He'd need to bring a hoe and clear this back. He was finding there was much to occupy their time; no risk of boredom.

He also found that he was concerned when Clarice was out of his sight. Every day, she had gone for a run, despite he pointing out that it was not fitting for their roles. The thump of her footfalls on the stoop at her return always gave him relief.

He had to follow her into the woods. She had not gone far.

She sat cross-legged on a carpet of wild violets under an ancient chestnut tree. A single, tiny bloom twirled in her fingers.

He sank onto a fallen log across from her her, pulled out a case and extracted a Panatela cigar and a lighter. Clarice had provided these as well as his other personal items.

"I'm surprised that you seem to be enjoying your time here," he noted.

"Why so?" she asked, squinting up at him.

He waved a hand around, breaking up the swirl of blue smoke. "Surely you saw your career in the FBI, your very nice townhouse, as a step up. And now this shanty, the labor in the dirt, as a tumble back."

"When I was hunting a dealer, or even a killer who knew we were after them, I'd look to their home place. Something about being chased makes a body want to go to familiar ground."

"Then was it wise for us to come here? Your home place?"

"I tol' you, no one knows."

"But someone may figure it out, given the great motivation you gave them."

She simply looked back at him. Her normally pale eyes absorbed the green foliage around her, going dark as the ancient moss which was her cushion.

"Or perhaps you were hoping to recreate Eden. Own little paradise." He took a deep tug on his cigar, amused at the idea.

"You're no creation of God," she said. "Unless Eve kept the snake and tossed out Adam."

He ignored her judgment. "Perhaps you're right. We're not of the Old Testament. Much too tiresome. Let's call you Pandora, my dear, trying to keep the lid tight on your jar of evil."

She shrugged and stood, unfolding her long legs with unconscious grace. "Best get back and cook up that dinner."

He remained on the log a few more moments, finishing his cigar. But as he rose, the breeze shifted and his strong, pure odor was carried away, replaced by cheap, formaldehyde-laced cigarette smoke. He whirled, searching the thick undergrowth for any sign of movement or life.

Nothing.

He would search, but he was unarmed, and the sway of Clarice's bright cropped hair drew him from the darkness into the light. He must have her back in their retreat from the woods.

oxo

Lecter cooked the asparagus with wild garlic and olive oil for a light lunch.

Clarice joined him at the table as he put the plates down.

He watched her delicately lap the spears from her fork. "I'm happy to see you eat fresh, green vegetables. Your previous dining habits have been painful for me to observe."

"Do you know everything about me?"

"I learn something new about you every day. That's why it's enjoyable being here."

Irritated, she said, "Stimulate you, like the test monkey in her cage? Or what will happen?"

"We will never know, so it's not worth asking," he said.

He cleared her plate as soon as she'd pushed her chair back and went to the couch, yanked off the drop cloth.

She curled up with a book to read, pointedly ignoring Lecter as he began sketching on his clean canvas of the living room wall. A draped woman's figure, then her own face, appeared. Whether it was the ubiquitous music wafting from the stereo, or the rhythmic scratching of his pencil, or the light rain on the tin roof, she nodded off.

Lecter's lips moved as though he were talking the images onto the wall, and would have appeared to any voyeur to be unaware of Clarice. But he heard every movement and thus saw her; folding her book around her finger, resting her head on the couch arm, brushing a stray lock of hair from her neck, relaxing into sleep. He wondered why it was so easy for her to nap when it took her so long to drop off at night.

He needed to get the full view of his mural. Rejecting the ridiculous Lazy-Boy, he settled beside her on the sofa. Once on the broken down cushion, he felt himself falling asleep as well.

Only a small shift in her body brought him alert. She sighed and stretched a bit, bringing her foot closer. She was barefoot, a common condition that irritated him. He imagined all the damage she could do stepping on a nail or coming upon a snake. Her pale slim foot, with its slender toes, twisted his heart slightly, as it had in the darkness of her apartment. Feet symbolized vulnerability; often hidden, easily damaged. They could be very ugly as well, showing a beautiful woman's inner slothfulness through bunions and hammertoes.

No such ugliness for Clarice's feet, of course. His fingertip traced her arch, light, so not to tickle her, and stroked off the big toe. She sighed again, stretching out further as she relaxed. He stilled, then engulfed her foot in his large hand, swallowing it whole. It was cool but warmed quickly. His damaged thumb caressed her instep with the sensitive side.

His gaze traveled on her bare calf. She wore another pair of her odd cargo-type pants which came to just below the knee. They'd ridden up as she shifted on the couch, revealing her pleasingly sleek kneecaps and strong tendons.

Her long thighs tempted his touch, and he tightened his grip very slightly on her foot, imagining that he was cupping those lithe muscles, drawing her closer to him...

Another sigh and she burrowed her head further into the cradle of her arm. Her breasts, barely restrained by a lightweight bra, stretched her cotton teeshirt in a way which intrigued him, as he could stand before a French nude painting for long minutes, not stimulated in a base sexual way, but how line and form could aliven his nerves.

He remembered one of their early conversations, about watching and coveting. The young Clarice Starling had not been physically striking and yet he'd somehow known that Jack Crawford and Doctor Chilton coveted her. He'd seen it when they'd been brought together to view the video, how all the men in the room, whether openly or covertly, watched her, trying to capture her spirit with their oppressive gazes.

His was the only gaze she would meet. From their first encounter, she looked into his eyes, first with fear and curiosity, then with confidence, even when she was lying to him-a low chuckle escaped at the memory of her duplicity-

She woke, wide eyes staring at him. He felt something he had not felt for many years-guilt; perhaps he was just another dirty old man ogling her after all. He waited for her usual scolding.

Her voice rough from sleep, she said, "Perhaps I could begin a study delving into the mind of the foot fetishist."

"I don't regard feet with any particular preference," he said, recovering his abomb. "I enjoy all body parts." He flashed his small teeth at her and she bared hers back.

She looked pointedly at his hand still holding her foot. He decided not to let it go. He would not be intimidated by her.

She didn't struggle but started talking with that careful lecturing tone he was beginning to find annoying or entertaining, depending on his mood. "Doctor, I suppose it's time that we discussed this-"

Although she turned enough to sit upright, he saw that she wouldn't pull her foot away or show any sort of discomfort, so he might as well take advantage of the situation. "What's 'this', Clarice?" he asked, now beginning to lightly massage her foot.

Her mouth opened to speak, then she closed it again, and actually blushed.

He knew it wasn't from his actions. "What is it, Clarice?"

She said, "I know you...like me, Doctor," and blushed deeper.

He lay her foot on his thigh and smoothed it with his palm as though he could meld it through his pants' fabric into his own flesh. "Yes, Clarice, I hope I may consider you a friend."

She barked one laugh. "I suppose, if you must."

"I must." His gaze met hers. "And do you like me, Clarice?"

The rain hissed on the corrugated metal roof. He watched the confusion work around in her mind as though it was a dark rat in a maze. He gave her foot a slight slap and she jumped.

"It's all right, my dear, take all the time you need to think of an answer."

He gripped her foot one last time to lift it off, but her mouth was opening to speak-then he saw movement on the porch; someone was there. He was instantly alert; was it their watcher from earlier?

Clarice turned her head and then he recognized the thick figure of Michelley Kreet. The girl had been watching them, he was certain, and he cursed his lapse. His usually highly tuned senses were too easily diverted these days.

Clarice called out, "Come on in," and pulled her foot away to rise.

The girl pushed through the screen door with her shoulder and mumbled a greeting. Her wet lank hair clung to her face and her too tight jeans were dark at the thick thighs from rain. A white fat roll peeked out from between her waistband and a shrunken pink top. Lecter smelled semen on her and was repulsed even more than his first meeting with her.

Michelley said, "Granny sent me over wit' some butta." She stuck out her filthy hands holding a package, the homemade butter mercifully well-wrapped in wax paper and then newspaper.

Ungracious, the doctor introduced the girl and took away her package.

"Thank you, Michelley," Clarice said, reacting to the doctor's distaste by being determinedly kind. "Would you like some pop? I got RC."

Lecter slid down into the root cellar through the hallway trapdoor in the floorboards. The girl watched him go with the avid interest of someone who had nothing interesting in her life.

She said, "Sure," so Clarice was forced to open a soda for her. The girl slurped it noisily, suckling on the glass bottle as if she were an overgrown baby. She stared at Lecter's drawing on the wall.

"Did you do dat?" she asked Clarice as Lecter's head rose out of the root cellar opening like an angry rodent.

Clarice said, "No, my husband is the artist in the family."

Painfully slowly, Michelley asked another question, "Is that there Jesus?" pointing to the figure behind the Clarice on the wall.

Clarice saw that he'd gotten far while she'd slept. He was reproducing his drawing of her as shepherd holding a lamb from the Baltimore asylum.

She knew Lecter was close, so she said, "Is it, Don-T?"

"Yes 'um," he purred. "Wit' his flock."

Clarice looked closer. Yes, that was the younger she, shorter hair, face fuller, eyes, sadly, much more idealistic. But the lamb now had small ram's horns and distinctive teeth. She shot him a dirty look over the girl's head and he aped a shrug.

Reading her mind, the girl said, "That sure is a funny lookin' lamb. Boy sheeps don't get their horns 'til later on."

"It's a symbol, child," Lecter said.

Quickly, Clarice said, "Darlin', she don't wanna hear all about

this-"

"Why you drawin' on the walls?" Michelley asked, clueless of the tension in the air. "Wadn't there paper on the walls befor'?"

"Yes, and it was damn ugly," Lecter said. "Besides, these here pictures are like stories. This is the way illiterate people used to learn Bible stories, with pictures on the walls of their church."

The wide, waxy forehead of the girl creased in confusion. "Don't you got a TV? I seen the dish."

Clarice sensed Lecter going still and feared more than anger from him. "Yes, we do. Don-T just likes drawin' pictures, that's all." She steered the girl towards the door. "Now you take that soda, honey, and go thank your granny so much for the butter. We'll swing by and pay her soon enough."

"I don't mind walkin' over. I can bring it anytime. Granny says you want butta and milk-"

"I'll come for it myself, thank you," Lecter said coolly. "We wouldn't want you tripping on a root and spilling the milk."

"I don't spill tha milk," Michelley said, jutting out her chin.

Clarice soothed her. "I'm sure you walk real carefully, but Don-T wants to pay your Granny right off as he gets the stuff. I bet she appreciates the money."

The girl blinked rapidly and yelled, "I wudn't gonna steal the money! I'm no thief!"

"I wasn't sayin' that," Clarice said, looking hopelessly to Lecter.

He took matters in hand. "Now you get on home, Michelley, and thank your Granny," he said, ignoring her outburst.

Suddenly docile, the girl went through the door he held open for her without another protest.

Clarice stood in the doorway, watching Michelley's shuffling retreat up their darkening driveway.

Lecter came up behind her. "Don't think about it," he warned.

"What?" she said with studied casualness.

"Trying to save that child from whatever is happening to her."

"She's the second sign that something isn't right around here," Clarice pointed out.

He chose not to add even more details that he'd noticed at the Kreet house.

She cut her eyes at him. "But that's your style, right? Why should you care what someone ruining another life, perhaps preparing to take lives?"

He refused to let that pass. "I stopped Mason Verger."

"In your own indomitable way," she drawled.

He was pushed to add: "And I stopped Paul."

"From what?" she demanded. "Being a prick?"

"Given enough time, he would have tried to rape you. I could see into his mind, my dear, from the first moment I met him ten years ago and saw the manipulation he was capable of. He would have hurt you much more than ruining your career."

Shaking her head, she said: "I would have killed him first-"

"Exactly. And who would have been on the ten most wanted list then?" he pointed out.

She folded her arms and glowered out the door, still not even looking at him.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to talk sense into the young woman. "Her grandmother is related to your great-uncle. Mrs. Kreet has already asked me about your mother and father, and how we came to have the property. If she sees you, she'll know who you are, false identity or not."

She didn't answer.

"Clarice," he nudged.

"I had forgotten to turn the alarm back on after Sam's visit," she said suddenly, turning to look over his shoulder. "That's why it didn't go off." She frowned with self-incrimination. "I can't make slip-ups like that again."

He watched her go, shaking his head in frustration at her ability to sidestep his attempts to curb her.

When she came back from re-setting the alarms, Lecter was shading the folds of her gown on the wall.

"It looks exactly like the drawing from ten years ago," she said. "That's amazing."

He smiled, but kept working.

She got herself a soda and watched him. "Are you going to do the dome from Florence too? Or wherever we're headed next?"

"I don't think that would be prudent," he said, rocking back on his heels. "But that does remind me of something that has been preying on my mind for all these years apart."

Taking a sip, she asked, "What?"

"Why didn't you come find me in Florence?" He peered up at her. "You and Barney were the only two people who paid attention to the subject matter of my drawings. You had to know that's where I'd be. As each year passed, I expected you to appear before me, gun in hand."

She stared out the window at the rain washing through her freshly planted rows.

"You did find me as soon as they reopened my case."

She finally met his gaze.

"Perhaps you were afraid of the outcome if someone else found me first."

"Someone did, and he paid for it," she pointed out.

He searched her blank face for something more but saw nothing. "I can't believe you had spent ten years, assigned to other departments, ignoring the danger of a free Hannibal Lecter, saying, it's not my job."

She shrugged. "I did my job; I did it well." Placing the half-empty bottle back in the refrigerator, she said, "I'm gonna go furrow some drainage in the cornfield before all my seeds wash away."

He watched her walk to the barn, spine straight, head upright, even

under the downpour. He mused, "I think you do like me, Clarice Starling," before choosing proper pencils and oil crayons and taking them to his bedroom.

Working quickly, he made a fresh drawing behind his door, showing

the young woman as Saint Margaret Mary, holding Christ's burning heart. When finished, he stood the door open again, covering the vivid picture.

End ~ Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five:

The doctor leaned on the porch railing and watched Clarice's short ponytail flip as she jogged down the drive for her morning run. He sipped the final dregs of his morning espresso, then noted the time. He'd have about an hour before she returned, but he wanted to be driving away within forty-five minutes.

After cleaning up the breakfast dishes, he lay out one of the two suits Clarice had supplied, a gray lightweight woolen. He chose a white shirt and striped tie. Nothing too attention-grabbing for this excursion.

He showered and put a fresh blade in his razor. Shaping his beard, he cleaned off most of the stubble on his cheekbones. When he stuffed his cheeks with pads, he somewhat resemble Henry VIII. He streaked his mustache, chin and hair with black dye. After contemplating his countenance, he also colored his thick eyebrows, giving himself an imposing appearance.

He'd managed to convince Clarice to buy different colors of hair dyes on their shopping trips, preparing for their eventual escape. He smiled at the memory of her suspicious expression, even as she allowed him to put the boxes in the cart.

Before dressing, he put a few undergarments in an overnight bag. This would do until he could purchase additions to his wardrobe. Down in the root cellar, he opened the fireproof box that held their cash. He decided $20,000 would be enough for his needs.

He checked the time. Forty minutes had passed. Carrying his bag to the van, he glanced around the fields. He would not miss the odors of manure and sewage but he'd come to appreciate the scents of spicy weeds and strong wood. As soon as he sat behind the van's wheel, he did miss Clarice. He'd contemplated inviting her to accompany him, but knew she would do nothing but fuss and fume. At the end of the driveway, he checked the direction she took in her run. No sign of the woman jogging down the narrow road. He turned the van in the other direction.

oxoxox

When Clarice entered the house, she immediately sensed the doctor's absence. An emptiness rang through the rooms, echoing out across the fields and barns. There was no note anywhere this time. She dashed to the garage shed and saw the van was gone, then checked his clothing, seeing that a suit and a few other things were missing. Standing in the center of his bedroom, surrounded by his warm odor, she settled her weight onto her heels, her rapid breathing thudding on his newly plastered walls.

A flash of color caught her eye behind the door. She opened it and saw the vivid drawing of her, in the black gown he'd given her at Paul's house but with a nun's wimple over her hair, holding a glowing heart.

She rushed from the room, slamming the door behind her, heading down the hall to the security room. As she waited for computer to start up, she replayed the video from the closed-circuit cameras, watching the van drive away.

He had cleared the history and cache, but she's set up a stealth retrieval program. He'd searched hotels in Norfolk, Virginia and had probably made a reservation but she was unable to discover at which one. Also, he'd checked the schedule of the Norfolk Chamber Music Festival. She swore under her breath, even as she shook her head at his gall. Taking in a bit of live music before fleeing? Or enjoying a special dining experience?

The concerts started that night, but it was open lawn seating. If she followed, she'd have to expose herself for a search and possibly draw authorities to them both. Calling around to hotels would be fruitless. She had no idea what name he would use, or even if he'd modified his appearance.

That gave her an idea. She went to the bathroom. Although he'd wiped the sink clean, there were traces of black dye trapped against the drain's rim, along with a few white hairs. She had a vague description for a start.

Returning to the security room, she stared at the television screens that showed nothing but empty woods. Her hand brushed the phone almost as an unconscious reflex. Her original plan was to turn him in if he escaped. She'd set an auto-response on the computer to contact the FBI if she had not checked in daily, in the event that he killed or imprisoned her.

Was the doctor simply testing his restraints, or was he really running? She imagined him behind the wheel of the van, the CD player filling the vehicle's shell with booming notes. She saw his dreamy smile, his fingers flexing on the wheel with excitement. He was close, but moving further away with each turn of the wheels. She lay her fingers on the computer's keyboard, beginning to play her own music, a tune filled with stifling tension.

He was leaving her...He had left her...

_What do you do with your anger, Clarice?_

The thud of a coffin's lid, one, two, three times...

_I chop it up I boil it down I consume it before it can consume me_

He deserved to die for leaving her. He deserved to die. Everyone said so...Her vision went black, then red.

She blinked to focus again. The first police report came across her computer screen; suspect believed to be at a gourmet kitchenware store on Waterside Drive. Her head heavy as a rock, Clarice turned it to look at the wall clock. Four hours had passed since she'd discovered the doctor gone. Had she been sitting in this dim room the entire time?

She had to do...Something. But she was suddenly so tired, so very tired...She couldn't move...

Her stomach knotted, then pitched-she managed to grab the garbage can right before the contents were ejected.

Lying her head on the desk, she waited for her vision to clear from the spinning pinwheels. She had to stop looking at the screens. Get up and do something..

Bracing her hands on the desktop, she forced herself to stand. She left the room and its flickering computer monitors.

oxoxo

Lecter entered his hotel suite and immediately opened the drapes covering a large window. He'd requested a harbor view and the city lights glistened on the oily dark water. The full day had started delightfully with numerous shopping stops. He'd noticed a police tail several times, but had evaded them and made sure to keep an eye out at the concert, even as he enjoyed a performance of Haydn by an excellent string quartet.

He needed to shower and wash the stiff dye from his hair. His photograph from store security cameras had probably been distributed across law enforcement. He'd brought a box of blond highlights for his next disguise.

When he was finished in the bathroom, he was too alert to sleep. He changed into one of his new linen suits. Then he unwrapped one of his new wine glasses from tissue and washed and dried it carefully before pouring out a Pinot Gris that he'd purchased.

The room was silent and smelled antiseptic. This determined stillness and cleanliness would normally bother him, but after days on the farm, it seemed wonderful. He strode about, unable to settle. The music still sang through his veins. He'd dined under an elm on a picnic meal that he had carefully assembled from a gourmet market. The clean taste of proper salt still tingled on his palate.

He opened a bag of cherries and nibbled on the fruit but couldn't stay in the chair that he had positioned before the windows. Leaping up, he impulsively decided to return that night. Clarice would scold, surely, but he wanted to see her reaction to his many acquisitions.

oxo

He drove a careful five miles over the speed limit through the night, watching the mirrors for any followers, and pulled into their drive at a little after five AM. He parked next to the front porch.

Even as he crept in, he knew Clarice wasn't in bed. The house was too quiet, without the rustle of her bedding or her hitched breathing. Her bed was made, the edges sharp on her quilt. In a few strides, he was at the front door, ready to check on her car. Then he noticed light leaking around the barn door and he stilled to listen. He heard a tattoo of blows on her punching bag. She had risen early for a workout.

First he retrieved a wooden valet from the van and hung his suit jacket on it. Loosening his tie, he chose to keep it on, running his work-scarred fingers down the luxurious silken length. Next he opened the package containing a mahogany jewelry box, and removed his new heavy gold cufflinks. He admired the engraving on the links- CS: a little joke-before dropping them into the box and rolling up his sleeves.

Bringing in the foodstuffs that needed to remain cool, he filled the refrigerator to capacity and all the available shelves in the root cellar. He put together a wine stand, and unloaded bottles from crates until it was full. Pleasantly exhausted, he decided the other things could wait until he napped; perhaps Clarice would deem to help him. Pouring a glass of port, he stood on the porch and listened to the sound of her punches traveling across the silent fields. He lit a cigar, enjoying the play between tobacco and alcohol.

The horizon had gone azure blue, and low mist clung to the green yard and dark fields. The barn was a black box in this light, with the yellow band around the door a sharp relief. The last stars hung low; Orion's belt, and the North Star. A white owl flew towards the barn, his night's hunt over. Lecter strolled towards the barn too, reminding himself to check his pant cuffs for grass stains when he returned. His shoes would need to be polished as well, but he wanted to start charming Clarice out of her understandable irritation.

He slipped in unnoticed and leaned against a support column, the odor of ancient tobacco and chicken manure mingling with not unpleasant results. He inhaled deeper to capture the scent of her exertion. Her back was to him, and her gold-flecked shoulders bunched and widened rhythmically as she attacked and retreated from the bag. A black sports bra and shorts marked off her long white limbs. Enshrouded by a smoke cloud, he sipped the warm wine and felt wonderfully fulfilled.

Within a moment, he noted all that was not right. Her skin appeared clammy and nearly dry instead of flooded with sweat. Her gaze on the bag was fixed, catatonic. When she stepped back to deliver a kick, he saw that the wraps on her curled fists were stained red. The smell of blood reached his senses.

"Clarice," he said. She did not reply but staggered slightly after kicking the bag. Dropping his cigar and glass to the dusty barn floor, he moved in.

"Clarice," he repeated as he pinioned her arms down from behind. He feared she'd fight him, but she went still.

"They saw you," she said. "I checked my Trojan Horse, and there were alerts out all over Norfolk. They almost have you three separate times."

"What Trojan Horse?" he asked, confused.

Under his grip, he could feel that forcing out each word was an effort for her. She gasped, "Before I left the FBI, I installed a hacking program on their server."

His mind quickly put all the pieces together. "I see."

"They even have the van on a highway camera on Interstate 64 out of the city."

"Obviously they didn't capture me," he soothed. "I got off the interstate and used country roads the entire drive back; no one followed."

"They know you're still on the East Coast."

"Can they be certain? I disguised my appearance and wiped away my fingerprints in the hotel."

"I'd created a shopping profile of you," she told him, her tone a flat monotone. "Anticipating your possible return to the US after the Pazzi murder, I put together an extensive list; wines, clothing, likely stores, everything. I wasn't able to purge it from the computers. They may hate me, but they're not stupid. They realize I know you best."

She began to struggle, her dry skin rasping in his grasp. "I'll go to jail. When they get us, I'll be put in jail." Her voice held wonder, as though this fact had suddenly occurred to her.

He wrapped his arms securely across her chest, holding her close and pressed his cheek to hers. "No, I won't let that happen," he whispered.

Her breathing rasped loudly in the still barn. Her punching bag continued to swing slowly.

He returned to facts, hoping this would settle her. "Even with my purchases, they have no way of knowing it was me for certain. You've seen the tabloids; I'm spotted more often than Elvis."

"They're going to examine the store camera footage and a hat won't cover your ear and nose shape. The computer programs will match your images. All that shit you bought will let them know it's you."

She'd ruined his day's pleasure with one word: 'shit'. He released her, hoping she'd do something to drive him to strike her.

Unaware of the threat, she didn't step away from him. "We'll have to get rid of the van. They have three letters off the plate from the camera footage."

"I'll do it later," he said. "Right now, you must be cleaned up."

She finally looked to him. Her eyes were glassy, the color washed out nearly to transparency. Her sweaty bangs clung to her pale forehead. Her lips, cracked and blue, stuck to her teeth as she spoke. "I suppose," she said.

"What else have you withheld from me?" he asked as he steered her towards the ajar door.

Dawn bathed the yard and they both blinked. She wavered on her feet and he toyed with carrying her, but decided she wouldn't appreciate it.

"Is there anything else?" he prompted again.

"No," she said and he decided that he must believe her.

Inside the kitchen, he had her sit at the table. "Stay there," he commanded. After fetching the medical supplies that were part of his purchases, he ran warm water into a basin.

Docile, she remained still. He filled a tall glass with room temperature water and ordered her to sip it, swishing out her mouth, but not swallow. "Spit into this," he said, setting the mop bucket by her chair. He put a towel-wrapped ice pack on the back of her neck and she gasped in relief.

Now he could attend to her hands. Carefully, he unwound the cotton protective bandages. She had workout gloves but must have chosen not to use them.

He said, "You know I won't apologize," as he delicately pulled the fabric from the clotting scabs on her hands.

"Yep," she husked.

Her knuckles were torn and bleeding, with bruises forming under the skin. He manipulated each finger, testing for breaks. She remained mute and he doubted she felt any pain to cry out about. Still, he didn't try to take her wedding ring off her mangled finger.

He released her hands. "You can swallow now," he said. "Just slowly and small sips."

After giving her that opportunity, he bathed her cuts with Betadine scrub, massaging the cleanser under the flaps of torn skin. "I'll wait to bandage these. You need to shower."

She agreed: "I feel pretty dirty."

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

"I'm not hungry."

"That wasn't the question," he said, irritated.

She kept up her maddeningly sideways replies. "I couldn't eat a thing."

"Did you have supper? Lunch before that?"

She shook her head.

"All right, I'll start your shower and make up an omelet."

"I'm not hungry," she said again.

He led her to the bathroom. "You will be as soon as you smell food."

Pulling back the repulsive shower curtain, he decided his next project was to install a proper, deep tub. That's what her muscles needed at this time, not the pathetic drizzle of their showerhead. He set the temperature at slightly warm.

"Don't make it hotter; you'll become ill," he warned.

She nodded, standing slump-shouldered behind him in the tight room. "I'll help you," he said and she didn't protest.

Fortunately, her sports bra fastened in the back. He undid the hooks and she caught it, holding it over her breasts before it fell.

"I can manage," she said, suddenly aware of his hands at her waistband. The room had become warm and moist instantly and this stirred his new cologne, only it was his familiar scent, the smell of him pressed against her in Krendler's kitchen.

He gave her a slight smile. "I'm a doctor, Clarice. I'm quite capable of behaving as such. I have in the past."

His hands smoothing a soapy washcloth over her limbs, the dim light catching on his deep blue irises... Like in a mirror, she saw her nude body reflected...

"I'm okay," she said.

Pushing her back onto the toilet, he said, "You won't be saying that the minute the soap hits those cuts."

"I can take it."

Unlacing her shoes, he yanked them off. "Can you manage the rest?" he asked and she nodded again.

"All right, then, get to it," he said briskly, leaving the steamy room.

oxo

Tidying up the kitchen, he remembered the new towels he'd bought for her. She'd supplied him with thick, luxurious Egyptian cotton towels, but her own lacked such comfort. He put the new ones in the dryer to warm after pulling out the load of laundry she'd left there. He frowned at his wrinkled shirts, but tossed them aside to be dealt with later.

He decided to change her sheets as well, replacing them with new. Removing the gun from under her pillow, he placed it on the bedside table. He hoped she'd leave it there, to keep gun oil stains from the fine linen bedding.

When finished in her bedroom, he knocked on the bathroom door. "Clarice, may I come in?"

She'd been leaning against the tile, biting her lip from the agony of washing her hair.

"What is it?" she said, staring through the shower curtain at the white door.

"I've brought you some new towels."

She reminded herself of many things, from his familiarity with her naked body to the fact they were trapped in this tiny house for the foreseeable future and said, "Sounds great."

The door opened, and a dark hulk moved into the room. "Are you finished?" his voice murmured. She tried to hold in a hysterical giggle but didn't succeed.

"What's wrong?" he said.

"I'm having a _Psycho_ flashback," she said.

"Excuse me?" Now the voice was puzzled.

"I bet you don't see many movies," she drawled, feeling silly and furious at the same time. Her vision swam in red seas again but there was nothing left in her stomach to throw up.

"Not many," he said. "It's not an entertainment that appeals to me."

He moved closer, blocking out the light. "May I help you?"

"No, just put those towels down, thanks."

Her tone was suddenly strong and he took the hint, backing out of the bathroom and closing the door.

oxo

The doctor whipped eggs in a bowl until they floated on air bubbles. He heated the pan, swirling butter around to form caramel-colored coils. Clarice shuffled in, wearing loose sweats with her feet bare, causing him to purse his lips in annoyance. He poured the eggs into the pan.

"I'm not hungry," she repeated.

"Try." He grated cheese and sprinkled it over the gelled eggs.

"What'd you buy?" she asked.

He placed the plate before her and poured her a glass of milk. "That can wait."

She poked at the omelet. "The towels were nice. Thanks." She ate one bite and made a face. Picking up the comb she'd brought from the bathroom, she fought with her tangled hair until he wordlessly took it from her.

"Try to eat more," he said as he carefully picked through the knots.

"I can't. It sticks in my throat."

"Drink something."

She sipped her milk. "I have to gather the eggs."

"I'll do it in a bit." The comb moved smoothly through her hair and she leaned into the sharp teeth scratching at her scalp.

"Can I make you something else?" he asked.

She smiled; a painful sight. "My mother used to make me eggnog when I was sick. No booze in it...I haven't had any in years...since I was a little kid." Horrified, she realized a tear had slid from her right eye but didn't want to draw attention to it by wiping it away. His fingertips had replaced the comb and one caught the tear, preserving her dignity.

Then he gave her privacy, returning to the kitchen area. Using the last of the eggs, he mixed up a glass of eggnog, scraping fresh nutmeg atop it. She smiled again, this time at his open enjoyment of his new culinary implements. She forced herself to drink it all down to see his satisfaction.

When she finished, he quickly bandaged her hands, racing the fluttering of her eyelids.

"Now to bed," he said, leading her down the hall. When tucked under the covers, he spread her growing hair out on the pillow to dry. She was asleep before he was at the doorway.

He changed out of his clean clothing and into work things. In the barn, the chickens scattered and complained bitterly as he pulled eggs from their nests. One dared to move in close, pecking at his ankle. Snake-like, he snatched her up and snapped her neck. "Bitch," he said.

oxo

Clarice rolled over, tangled and overheated in her new bedding. The doctor stood at the end of her bed with his hands lightly resting on the footboard.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," she said, her voice scratchy.

"I wanted to tell you I've disposed of the van."

After bleeding and plucking the chicken, he had finished emptying out the vehicle and removed the license plate. Driving to the river, he had found a spot where the water become still and deep. He rolled down the windows, gunned the motor and drove very fast off the road, through the weeds, and into the water. Pulling himself through his window, he swam to shore and watched until the vehicle sank out of sight. He had walked briskly home, his clothes drying in the late spring sun.

"Good to hear," she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "I'll check the Feds' progress on the computer."

"I've prepared an early supper," he said. "That can wait." He lay a gentle hand on her shoulder, holding her to the bed. "Allow me to check your hands."

"I'm okay," she insisted, but placed her hands across his outlying palms.

His wide fingers manipulated her slender ones. "There appeared to be no breaks earlier, but without x-rays, it will be hard to determine."

Furrowing his brow as he bent each finger, he said, "Does this hurt?"

"Nope," she replied, focusing on his milk-white skin tightly drawn across his collarbones.

Pulling her hands away, she asked, "Should I dress for dinner?" noting for the first time his new herringbone brown slacks and open shirt of indigo blue.

"If you wish," he said, but she saw his barely contained pleasure at her suggestion. Then she remembered she had nothing to wear.

He solved this dilemma by saying, "I picked up a few things for you, if I may be so impertinent-"

"Sure, why not," she said easily.

"I've hung them in your armoire. Feel free to look them over while I put the final touches on dinner."

He slipped from the room as she rose.

In the kitchen, he pulled the chicken from the oven to allow the meat to rest. He had picked the first tender peas in their garden, which he sautéed quickly in fresh olive oil. After removing them from the heat, he tossed violet petals with the pods and squeezed lemon juice over the plate.

Behind him, Clarice said, "Is that one of ours?"

He nodded as he took a bottle of a young white wine from the refrigerator. Keeping his back to Clarice, he poured out two glasses. "I've roasted her stuffed with fresh rosemary and whole lemons."

"I guess I need to pick up some more pullets," she said. "At this rate, we'll be out of birds by the end of the month."

"I'll try to control myself better in the future," he said, finally daring to look upon her.

Clarice had chosen the sleeveless raw silk sheath and had wound a delicate silver scarf around her neck. She'd combed her hair behind her ears but the pale ends flipped up here and there, something he found oddly appealing. The dress' midnight blue shade brought the color back into her still sleepy eyes. With white bandaged hands, she pulled the scarf's ends down as though she could cover herself from his bright gaze.

"It's all right," he soothed. "I promise to behave."

She grinned at him with that Southern wickedness she occasionally displayed. "Sho-nuff."

Sinking to the chair which he held out for her, she sipped the wine and reverted to another facade. "This is lovely."

Lighting candles around the room before extinguishing the harsh overhead lighting, Lecter had to agree.

End~ Chapter 5


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six:

Once dinner was cleared away, exhaustion got the best of the doctor and he retired early after changing the dressings on Clarice's hands. But he woke several times in the night to see her moving in the hall, gun glinting, watching at the windows and doors.

"Go to bed, Clarice. They're not coming."

The shadow outside his open door paused, then moved away.

Over the next few days, Clarice didn't stray far from the house but checked the FBI communications hourly on her computers. She watched certainty of Lecter's identification change to hedging and second-guessing, and finally political ass-covering. The story had been on all the cable news networks for a few days, but the programs showed out-dated photographs of both of them. Without fresh information, the doctor and former agent were soon replaced by new crises. On the morning of the fifth day, even the Bureau had shoved the search onto a back shelf, insuring their safety for now. The doctor chuckled when she passed this on with indignation.

"I told you that everything would turn out all right," he said. Then he added, raising an eyebrow, "One would think you wanted me to be apprehended."

She crossed her arms with a snap of her elbows. "Someday, someone's gonna wipe the smart-ass smile off your face."

"But not someone at the FBI now that you're gone."

She paced the tiny room. "Our schedule will be pushed back by this episode. I don't think we can dare try to leave the States until the end of August at the earliest."

He moved into the hall to give her more space. "I thought you said the danger had passed," he pointed out impatiently.

"The ass-covering extends to ensuring that we're on the watch list at the airports, even if we're not really here," she said dryly.

"Perhaps we should drive to Mexico and then fly out from there," he suggested.

"Too many things can happen with that amount of time. Look what happened when you were on the road," she said, brushing past him. "No, we need a quick strike, get out of the country in an hour or two."

He watched her pass through the back door. Let her go hack at the weeds which dared to grow in her garden. He would add to his wall murals if they were stay.

But when he poked his head out the kitchen window to call her in for lunch, there was no sign of her. After days of staying within sight of her house and weapons, he couldn't believe she'd leave.

Worried, he began to search.

xox

"More coffee?" Ava Kreet asked her guest from the doorway of her house.

"Thanks much," said Clarice, giving the older woman a grateful smile as she held out her cup. She sat on the Kreet's front porch, perched on the edge of a saggy old couch.

After returning the coffee pot to the kitchen, Mrs. Kreet settled back in her own chair, and swept an examining gaze over Clarice's bland visage.

The former agent knew to hold her features, giving nothing away. Her hostess was obviously an accomplished investigator herself. Ava Kreet tried a new tack. She'd probed, cajoled and laid traps, all in an attempt to find out the past of 'Beatrice Lambert.'

Clarice continued to sidestep, and put forward her own questions. "I fret 'bout Don-T, you see. Worry he'll fall back in with the wrong crowd. It's not his nature to be trouble. Just gets in with the bad sort."

"I've seen it," Ava said with a nod, slurping on her own black coffee.

"I'm sure you know everyone around these parts," said Clarice and the old woman took this as an opening.

"As a matter of fact, I'm thinkin' you remind me of someone. Got family around here?"

Clarice shook her head and kept up her inquiries. "is there anyone we should keep an eye out for?"

Ava gave a vexed sigh. Michelley came wandering out of the house and plopped down on the edge of the porch, swinging her plump legs aimlessly.

Clarice could see Dwayne just inside the screen door, watching them.

His grandmother pursed her wrinkled mouth. Before she could reply, the doctor came striding up the drive, thunderous.

"Here's where you go to!" he raved.

Clarice started to reply hotly and then remembered her role. "Now Don," she whined. "Don't get all riled up."

He mounted the rickety porch steps. "What you doin' over here?" he growled suspiciously.

"Just visitin'" she said, ducking her head, contrite.

"Have some coffee?" asked Mrs. Kreet, rising to fetch the pot and another mug.

Michelley tipped her head, look up at Lecter curiously. "Your hair's different," she pointed out in her dull voice.

Ignoring the girl, Lecter insisted, "We'll be gettin' home," reaching for Clarice.

Role or no role, she wasn't going to be manhandled. She jumped up and pushed past him. Red-faced, she thanked Mrs Kreet for her hospitality and thumped down the stairs, leaving him behind.

He caught up with her at the end of the drive. "Clarice," he dared to call out. "Don't be so obstinate!"

"That's funny, coming from you," she tossed over her shoulder.

"Girl," he fumed, but she dove into the heavy undergrowth before he could properly chide her. He had to follow, chasing her bobbing bright hair through the dark woods, as if following a candle in the gloom of night.

Her internal compass found the way back to their property. He realized just how close the Kreets were to them and wasn't pleased.

His lamp was gone-then he spotted her by an old stump. When he drew close, he saw that bees were lazily looping around her head, as though drawn by her glow as well.

"Clarice."

"Someone's busted up this honey tree," she said.

He observed the fresh scars on the bark, sap bleeding with golden honey. Bees swarmed on their lifeblood, unable to stem the tide. The marks on the wood were obviously that of an axe.

"An intruder's been on our land again," he said darkly.

"Yep," she agreed. "But if we can get the queen, we can set them up in those bee boxes I saw in the barn."

"Do you know how-"

She was already reaching into the splintered trunk. "The old man who lived next door when I was young was a bee man. Collected wild honey. He took me with him a few times-"

"You're not afraid?" Lecter ignored the the angry buzz around his own body.

"No." She glanced at him. "Give me your shirt."

As she tugged apart the rotting wood and the bee swarm thickened, he quickly unbuttoned his denim work shirt and shed it, leaving only an undershirt to protect him.

She unfurled her hand, revealing a fat, elongated bee. Gently, she dropped the queen into a fold of fabric and closed it over the insect. "The drones will follow," she explained.

"Verger selected the perfect allusion to describe you, much as I hate to admit it," he said.

"Huh?" she muttered, as she broke off a piece of comb and inspected it.

He often mocked her single-minded thought process but now could only find it amusing. "That you are the honey in Samson's lion, my dear."

She rolled her eyes.

Ignoring her dismissal, he murmured: "And I cannot resist from feeding."

Muggy clouds covered the sun and dropped their glen into shadows. "Verger knew you almost too well for your survival," she suggested.

"No," he said firmly. "He simply had the instincts of the feral hunter."

A quick, knowing smile quirked on her lips. "Or he knew you too well for his survival. Everyone who comes to know you intimately dies or barely survives. Interesting."

"You're still alive," he said, echoing something she'd said to him at one time.

"For now." She plucked a bee off her thin forearm and then tried to pull the stinger from her skin.

"You will live on as long as I have anything to say about it," he promised her as he stopped her.

He opened his jackknife. "Let me take do it." Holding her arm out taut, he scraped the stinger out with the blade. He turned his arm to show her three dead bees hanging off their stingers. "Now do me," he asked.

She cleaned him quickly without meeting his eyes.

"And in that vein, you must stop investigating our neighbors," he lectured.

Shading her eyes, she looked toward their property. "I should get some buckets and gather what honey is left."

"Clarice-"

"I wudn't doin' nothin'," she drawled petulantly.

He noticed how pronounced her dialect became when she was defying him.

"You were. To compensate for your guilt over protecting me, you've decided to play at Special Agent right here. You cannot risk that-"

"What if someone is about to be killed? Has been murdered already? Oh, that's right. Death means nothing," she sneered and gathered up his shirt with the queen inside.

He blocked her way from storming off as she usually did in their confrontations. "That's where you're wrong, my dear," he ground out. "No one can live without a death. It is not a question of motives, but Oedipal drive. Take your case as an example."

He looked her over, from her fuming face to firmly planted boots. "Your father had to die for you to become the person you are. If he'd lived, you'd be wearing frosted eyeshadow, clerking at Walmart, have a pack of kids-"

"And you turn the questions back to someone else again. Who had to die for you to become who you are?"

His tender gaze lingering on her face almost unnerved her. Her eyes dropped first.

This time, he did allow her to pass without stopping her.

xox

Over the next few days, she scrubbed out the bee boxes and set them up for the swarm which had followed them back to the farm. After feeding on the fruit tree blooms, they settled into their new home, ready to serve their queen.

Intent on serving his own queen, Lecter obtained a massive, clawfoot tub from the town junk dealer. Although some husky young men had loaded it into their newly acquired pick-up truck, it took several calculations on his part to finally create a suitable sledge for the object's transportation to the back porch. Now he needed to plumb it. He had downloaded instructions from the Internet and the printouts were propped up on the washing machine. He hoped to have the tub working before the heat of the day made any concentration impossible.

Dressed for her first run since their security scare, Clarice bound down the hall and leapt off the stoop. The warped wood floor bucked, causing his papers to flutter away. The doctor shook his head as one would react to the actions of a teenager and gathered his instructions back up.

She wanted to finish before the humidity got too strong, and besides, she loved the smell of the morning dew drying on the roadside weeds. She'd only gotten a mile before she heard a rattling truck coming up behind her. Shifting closer to the drop-off of the ditch, she slowed. She sensed the vehicle coming closer, slowing, then she tumbled down into the ditch as the truck's front fender brushed her.

Rolling to her feet, she reached back and unzipped her fannypack to touch the .357 she carried when off the farm. She peered up through the weeds-had it been a mistake or an attack? Perhaps the authorities had discovered her computer program and the disorder she'd observed had been a trap.

The truck was slowly backing, then stopped. Big boots came around and Dwayne Kreet looked down at her. "Hey, thar ya' are. Sorry 'bout that." He grinned, showing his uneven teeth and white gums. He reached out with one of his raw hands. "Let me give he'p up."

"No thank you," she said cautiously. "You get on down the road."

"What dat?" he said, shoving his hand in his overall's pocket, sliding it up and down his inner thigh. "I'm jus' bein' friendly."

Slowly, carefully, keeping an eye on him, she worked her way out of the muddy ditch and up onto the road. He'd parked crossways, blocking her forward progress. "I don't need any mo' friends," she said.

He grinned again, working at one of the empty gaps in his smile with his moist tongue. "Oh, now, come on. Dat ol' man can't be givin' you wha' you need. I bet he can't keep it up. I kin give you it all night long."

It took all of Clarice's control to keep from either laughing aloud or spitting on him. She pretended she thought he was joking. "You get on along now, Dwayne, an' I'll forget all about this."

He took one step closer and she decided not to play anymore. She yanked out her pistol. "Get in that truck, Dwayne," she said coolly.

His pale eyes widened and he blinked rapidly, but now his honor was threatened. "Gimme dat," he said, coming closer.

She sighed at the bother, and kicked him hard in the knee, sending him into a heap with a howl of pain. Sidestepping his feeble thrashing at her ankles, she shot out the two tires on the right side of his truck and the left rear as she walked around the back end. "Tol' you," she said without a backward glance, tucking away her gun. She began her run again.

At the first shot, Lecter's head had whipped up from his work. By the second, he was in his room, grabbing one of his new purchases, a proper knife. When the third rang out, he was halfway to the car.

Dwayne had gotten back to his feet and was hanging on the truck's bed for support, cursing as he checked his tires. He heard a vehicle coming, very fast, then saw the cloud of gravel dust. "Shit," he cursed, hoping whoever was driving could get past his truck.

Instead, the Camaro slammed to a halt and the doctor was on him like a lunging dog, blade at his throat, before he could blink.

"Where is she?"

Dwayne only gasped.

"Where is she?" The knife dipped into the young man's scrawny neck, drawing blood. "Where is she, and I'm not asking again."

"I ain't got her. She done run off."

"You fucker, you repugnant piece of shit," the doctor hissed, gripping Dwayne's neck with one iron hand while he stretched to look into the cab and bed of the truck. "If you're lying, I'm going to gut you-" Could his nightmare of Clarice's life being taken by some common criminal have come true?

"What da fuck-I ain't done nuthin' to her, we was jus' talkin'-"

Lecter swiveled his head, trying to see if Clarice's body lay in the roadside weeds. "Then why did she shoot out your tires?" He squeezed the younger man's neck until blood from the cut oozed between his fingers. "Last time; what have you done to her?"

"I done nothin'. She's da one who got all mad and shot up my truck," Dwayne whispered. "Le'me go."

"She returned to her run? After shooting your tires?" Lecter recreated the scene in his mind, this yokel attempting his tiresome advances, and yes, Clarice would be unfazed and continue on after dealing with the situation. He loosened the pressure on Dwayne's neck.

"Yeah, dat's wha' I'm tryin' to tell you," he whined.

"All right, D-Wayne." The doctor moved in close, grabbing the man's left wrist and placing the knife blade at his sternum. His voice low, Lecter told Dwayne, "You're going to listen closely to my words, and pay attention. Have I got your attention?" He snared Dwayne's shirt with the blade's tip.

The younger man's head bobbed up and down frantically.

Lecter calmed. His vision cleared from the red haze. Very carefully, he explained, "If you ever speak to my wife again, or even look at her, I'm going to come and find you. Then I shall cut out your heart, deep-fry it, and serve it to yo' Mamma, sliced on Wonda Bread with pickle relish." He let the tip nip Dwayne's pale chest. "Do ya hear me?"

"Wha' you talkin-"

Lecter pressed the knife down until blood spurted and Dwayne howled. "Last chance, Dwayne," he said.

"Yeah, yeah, I hear ya-I was jus' tryin' to be friendly."

The doctor echoed Clarice: "We don't need any more friends." He pulled the knife out from Dwayne's shirt and couldn't resist. He licked the blade clean.

Dwayne's eyes widened. "Wha are ya? That Habble the Cabble person?"

"Yes, Dwayne, I am," the doctor said. "Now repeat what I tol' you."

Dwayne's blond-white eyebrows met over his monstrous nose in confusion. "Wha?"

"My God, you must be the stupidest person I've ever met," Lecter said mildly as he snapped Dwayne's wrist with one quick jerk.

"Shit!" screamed Dwayne, dropping to his knees, then fell over, his knee still sore from Clarice's attack.

"Really your last chance," Lecter murmured in his ear.

"I'll stay away from her," Dwayne muttered.

Lecter nodded, satisfied, but when the younger man added, "She ain't so hot anyways," he caved in Dwayne's dick with one solid kick from his steel-toed work boot.

Walking back to the Camaro, the doctor tossed over his shoulder, "Yes, you are the stupidest individual I've ever met."

He maneuvered past the truck and as soon as he was clear, gunned the motor to race after Clarice. When she heard the car coming, she had a startled thought that Dwayne had somehow gotten his tires changed. She stopped and reached for her gun, then saw it was her own car with Lecter at the wheel, his face furious.

He stopped and called through the open passenger window, "Get in."

"I'm not finished with my run," she said, glancing at the knife lying on the seat.

"Get in," he demanded again. "Now." He reached over and opened the door.

She stood with her hands on her hips, her breathing still rapid.

"I'll take you to the riverside path to run," he said. "I'll stay in the car while you finish."

She kept arguing. "I'm not going to be taken like some poodle for a run in the park. I can take care of myself."

"Clarice-"

Suddenly giving in, she snatched the weapon off the seat and plopped down. He shifted the gears and they were away.

"What did you do to him?" she asked as she examined the knife and found traces of blood.

"We had a discussion. He has survived."

"Did you do anything that may make him suspect your identity?" she said evenly.

"He hasn't a clue," Lecter said and flicked on the CD player, blasting Bach through the interior.

Clarice couldn't help but sulk. She slid down in the seat and lay her cheek on the car door, letting her hair whip out the open window. The verdant tobacco fields flew past, making her dizzy. She liked the sensation. Perhaps she wouldn't need to run; her tension would fly away with the speed-

The doctor was asking her if she'd like fish for dinner, if so, he'd take his rod to the river and see what he could catch. When she only gave a disinterested hum, he said, "Don't behave like a child, Clarice."

"Then don't treat me like your little helpless girl child, Doctor."

"I have no wish to take over the role of your father," he said with a slight smile, then frowned. Perhaps her father was not a good topic to bring up while they were quarreling.

With no emotion in her tone, she said: "Sometimes, Doctor-"

He nudged. "Yes?"

"Sometimes I feel like I was never a kid; like I'm a thousand years old."

"Does that make me the child?" he said carefully.

She rolled her head on the window's edge and met his gaze squarely until he had to pull his eyes back to the road.

Her amused voice floated over to him on the swirling winds inside the car. "Yes, sometimes you seem like a little boy to me."

He decided not to ask if that made her his mother.

She continued: "Not immature, but young in the pure delight you take with things."

She frowned.

"Even terrible, horrible things, but I suppose little boys are that way too sometimes."

She'd seen dozens of photographs of Lecter, but none as a child. He'd always appeared the same age, not old, not young. Ageless: a soul that had been with humanity all through time.

"Snails and puppy dog tails; that's me," he said. "And you allow yourself no delights, I fear."

Resentment flooded her, but she couldn't tell if it was at him or herself.

"Have you ever done anything for your own pleasure?" he asked.

"You're here, not in jail. Maybe I have." She meant that as a joke, but there was no amusement in his deep-water eyes when he looked at her. She suddenly recalled Paul Krendler's remark: 'Maybe you're incapable of being happy.'

"What are you thinking now, Clarice?" he asked, but she only shook her head.

He held back any more questions and contented himself to steal glances at her as she stared out the window. Only when he observed her unfettered joy at horses racing the car in a roadside field, did he ask again, "What is it?"

She told him that the ranch in Montana had had horses. "I rode around, no instruction, how I didn't kill myself I don't know. Just jumpin' on bareback, running, running...damn, that was a lotta fun." She smiled. "So I 'spose I was a kid every now and then."

"And then you had to go away to the Lutheran Home. No more horseback riding."

"Right."

"Have you ridden since then?"

"I have," she said. "Senator Martin had me down to ride at her farm in Tennessee. And she had friends with a place in Virginia. I went and rode there nearly every weekend for a year or two, got some proper training-"

"What was his name?"

"What do you mean?" she asked with a sly smile.

He smiled back, but it looked more like he was gritting his teeth. "I'm sensing a burly gentleman with hairy forearms, perhaps named Hank or something equally manly, flinging you into the saddle-"

"My riding instructor was a very nice gay man named Chad. I'm afraid hunky stable hands went away with DH Lawrence's death. I got good enough, considered buying a horse-"

"But..." he prompted.

"But there's no way I had the time to care for a horse properly, or get in regular riding time. I could be called away for weeks at a time." Her mouth turned down.

He glanced into the rearview mirror to watch the horses spin in frustration, their race ending at the fence line. He knew how he would make up his misstep in Norfolk.

~ end Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7:

Lecter dressed carefully for attending services at Christ's Fire Holy Church. He rejected his suits and crisp white shirts. Instead, he put on a pair of faded but clean work pants and a new cheap cotton shirt, striped white and blue with pearl snaps. He scrubbed his work boots clean but didn't bother with polish.

He looked into Clarice's room, but found an empty, crumpled bed. Exploring further, he discovered that she was painfully curled on the porch swing, her head lolled over as she slept. He touched her damp arm and her eyes slowly opened.

"Why are you out here?" he asked.

"Too hot in room," she mumbled.

"Perhaps we should convert this to a sleeping porch," he suggested. "Screen it in and set up some proper beds."

She ran her hands through her matted hair. "Sounds good. The morning sun just blazes into my room."

"My room has become quite warm as well. And installing air conditioning would be out of the question?"

"I don't think even you are up to that sort of project, and I'd like to keep people off the farm," she said.

He agreed, and then said: "I'm going to church as part of my role as Don-T Lambert, ex-con, struggling with his redemption. Will you join me?"

"Hell, no." Rising from the swing, she stretched. When she tugged down her tank top, her breasts rose tantalizingly upward in the scoop neck.

As she swept past him on the way to her bedroom, she said, "You're having unchristian thoughts, Doctor."

Realizing that he was up on his toes, Lecter settled his weight firmly on the floor again.

xox

Lecter slid into the last pew of the small, bare church. A couple dozen parishioners were clustered close to the altar, their rapidly moving paper fans sounding like moths' wings beating against a hot lightbulb. The choir of red-faced girls swayed in the humidity. He recognized Michelley among the singers, squeezed into a violently printed nylon dress. Ava Kreet was in the second row with Dwayne at her side. The doctor noted the younger man's wrist was in a cast and he smiled, then he rose to join in with the opening hymn.

The minister was a peck of a man who barely cleared his Formica veneer lectern. Thick corded veins on his neck held up his oversized head, round and fuzzy as a newborn chick's. His voice screeched through his Old Testament laminations, rising high enough to cause dogs to howl. Lecter was enthralled.

After the sermon came the prayers for lost souls. First was an older, huge woman in a red wig. She sobbed into an old-fashioned linen handkerchief. "Please give your prayers for Bianca, she's goin' through such a tough time right now, with her confused feelin's, an' her Momma given her nothing but trouble. And pray for Greelly, her love is done gone..."

Cocking his head in curiosity, Lecter watched the expressions of the parishioners change from confusion to understanding to embarrassment.

After the woman finally ran out of characters, the preacher motioned to a plump woman with washed out coloring seated beside Sam Brocker. "Iris, surely you wish to join us."

Mrs. Brocker blushed the painful red hue of the constantly shy. Sam prodded her upright.

She stared at her feet as she rapidly mumbled, "Let us pray for my lil' sister, Gail, who done run off, breakin' her Momma's heart, my heart, her Daddy's heart, and who's surely sinning every moment of the day, breaking the good Lord's heart." With that, she dropped back to her seat.

Seated in the choir, Michelley dabbed her eyes with her fat white fingertips.

The congregation stayed silent when the minister asked, "Anyone else?"

Ava Kreet looked beseechingly at her grandson, but he refused to meet her gaze. Then she glanced over her shoulder at Lecter. He smiled broadly at her.

"May I offer up my sin?" said the doctor.

The preacher flapped his wrinkled hand in encouragement.

Lecter rose, gripping the pew ahead of him. He kept his head down; his eyes squeezed shut. "Dear Lord, please give me the strength to resist my uuurr-ges-" He dragged the word out. "My dark, sinful urges. I must be a good hu'band to my beloved. An' show her the strength to put up with my bull-my evil ways."

He added unnecessarily, "Amen," and heard his echo. He sat, not returning the big smile that Michelley Kreet was giving him.

The preacher began a boring cataloguing of various community announcements and reminders, so Lecter flipped through a tattered edition of Psalms. King David's poetry diverted him so much that he didn't realize everyone was filing out.

Mrs. Kreet stopped at the end of his aisle and caught his attention. "Where's that wife of yours, Mr. Lambert?"

"She's feeling poorly. This heat's got her down," he told her smoothly.

"Nothing the good word couldn't cure," the old woman said.

Realizing that her grandson had abandoned her, the doctor offered his arm and she accepted.

"I'll be sure to read from The Book for her when I get home."

He led her through the doorway and saw that Dwayne was already behind the wheel of his truck, smoking a cigarette.

"Your grandson; he hurt his arm?"

"He says he busted it changin' a tire, but-"

"But?" The doctor couldn't hold back his satisfied grin.

"Sometimes that boy doesn't listen real good," she said. "Maybe he will now."

Lecter stopped at his truck. "Yes, let's hope he got the message."

Ava Kreet looked back to the church. "Now where's that girl got to?"

Her question made the doctor think of the missing Gail. "Who is that?"

"That Michelley. She's always off someplace."

"Perhaps she and the other choirgirls are practicing," he suggested.

"Should be, but she ain't. That girl can't carry a tune in a bucket."

Deciding to probe, he asked: "This Gail was a friend of hers?"

Mrs. Kreet's long face became even more morose. "Yes, she was. But we don't talk about her no more."

"That way no one hurts anymore," he said wryly.

"That Gail had started acting all tarty and had been messing around with any boy who'd look once. We don't want Michelley getting' any ideas," the girl's grandmother said.

"Yes, if she got even a single idea, she might be dangerous." He added, "I must say my goodbyes. My wife will need her lunch," but Mrs. Kreet was already stumping off towards her grandson's truck.

Michelley came bursting out of the church's door. She waved her plump hand at Lecter like a child much younger than her age. Lecter ducked into his truck, planning his luncheon menu.

xox

Arriving at the farm, the doctor found Clarice was already preparing lunch, something fried and involving cornmeal.

"You shouldn't have," he said, poking cautiously at the batter-covered disks on the plate by the pan.

"You don't have to eat them if you don't want any," she said. "I made all those for me, as a matter of fact." She carried the plate over to the table. "I love fried green tomatoes."

"My dear, I'd hoped I was dragging your palate to a higher level."

She savored the first bite. "You can take the girl out of the hills, but can't take the hills out of the girl."

"An unripe fruit, dipped in coarse ground corn, then drenched in lard-or did you at least use olive oil?" he asked hopefully.

"Nope," she said, swallowing half a slice. "I've been collecting fatback drippin's."

"Dear God," he said breathlessly.

"Don't knock it 'til you try it." She offered a piece on the end of her fork.

His speculative blue eyes met her challenging gray ones. The tomato hovered at his pursed mouth. "Come on, Doctor."

She swiped his lips, leaving a grease trail. "I never thought I'd discover that you are a picky eater."

"We just continue to surprise each other," he said while she ate the piece. She _was _surprising him, with her teasing tone and loose limbs draped casually over the chair. To him, she'd never been tense in his company, but in her own skin and life. Far from the Bureau and its expectations and leering faces, she was finally relaxing.

Lecter poked at the remaining tomatoes with a fork before selecting the smallest one. He had to answer the dare in her level gaze.

He chewed the tomato, his own eyebrows rising in surprise. The tart under-ripe fruit was complemented by the smoky pork fat. The salt and pepper was nearly overwhelming but remained on the right side of vigorously seasoned.

"I've known great hunger, Clarice," he told her. "It gives you an appreciation of all food and what true satisfaction is. A fantastic culinary experience is like nothing else you can imagine."

"Better than anything?" she murmured. "Power, money..." She ate the last slice in one bite, folding it into her mouth. Muffled, she added, "Sex?"

She _was _in a strange mood.

He wiped the grease from her chin and licked his fingers clean, even though the lingering flavor of rancid bacon fat made him wince. "I would say yes, but just as you obviously have not eaten the great meal to change your views, I have not found anything that has changed mine."

"Haven't bitten from that pink cupcake with Crisco frosting that will change your tune?" she said.

"What on earth are you talking about?" he said, puzzled.

Her only reply was a grin. She got up to clean the kitchen. Changing the subject, she said, "In my continued pursuit of wasting my Sunday, I was gonna go swimming at the river."

"I'd thought of spend my afternoon fishing, so our two minds lead to the water."

She offered him the towel to dry as she washed the dishes. "Not going to remain in religious reflection?" she asked dryly.

"I've done my duty." He squinted at the glass and handed it back to her for another washing.

She snatched it from him. "Absolved of all your sins?"

"Confessed every one," he said, polishing a plate and putting it back in the cupboard.

"I certainly hope not. I hope you just said your prayers, put a dollar in the collection plate and came back home."

He ducked his head and didn't reply.

She watched him while she asked her next question. "Did you pick up any news you want to share?"

He quickly wiped the spatula and put it in the drawer. "Nothing. It was dull as..." He glanced into the sink. "Dishwater."

After hanging the towel over his chair's back to dry, he headed into his bedroom to change into clothing as suitable as her cut-offs and tanktop for an afternoon at the river.

She dunked the cast-iron frying pan in scalding water until the crusted residue slipped off the black surface, then rubbed cooking oil into it, all the while thoughtful.

xox

Clarice paddled on her back, drifting slowly past the doctor's perch on a large flat rock outcropping. He cast towards the shadowed deep waters under an arching willow. She flipped over and swam back up current.

"My girl, how can I be expected to catch a fish when you're disturbing the water?" he griped.

"Coming to the river was my idea first-"

"You spoke first; that's different," he said.

She promised, "We can go to the store if you don't catch anything," just as his line went taut.

He fought to wind the reel. "The threat of Piggly Wiggly's offerings is enough to inspire me."

She swam to his rock, but when he finally brought his catch in, it was an ugly catfish.

He set it loose over her objections. "I refuse to eat something that's been feeding on the Kreet family shit."

"First green tomatoes, now catfish," she said, dropping down onto the heated rock.

He tossed his line out again, but propped the pole in the mud and sat down behind her. She began wringing out her hair.

"Allow me." He patted a spot close to him.

_Do you spook easily, Starling?_

Squaring her shoulders, she scooted to sit beside him, turning her face up to the warm sun. His fingers gently worked at the wet tangles in her hair.

"Please don't dye it this awful blonde again," he chided.

The color, done quickly with store-bought dye, had faded and blended with her naturally darker strands but he still complained.

"Can't let it go red again," she insisted stubbornly. "It's one of my identifying markers on the APB."

He only made a tsking sound in his throat. His large hand came down her shoulder, gently urging her to move closer and lean back on his bent legs so he could spread her hair across his knees.

_You don't want him inside your head. Never forget what he is._

She had never forgotten what he was. That wasn't the issue. From the day she'd met Hannibal Lecter, she'd been comfortable in his presence. She could only see that as a problem.

And every day that they'd been together on the farm, she had been at ease around him. She had never lived with a man in her relationships, other than leaving a spare pair of panties in their top dresser drawer and a toothbrush in the bathroom. But she'd never had felt the urge to marry, let alone live with someone.

Beyond who the man was, entering into the simple day to day interactions with a man had been a concern. She had not know what to expect for life with her captive, but falling into some easy but unaccustomed domesticity wasn't it.

He cleaned up. He cooked. He helped out around the place without being asked. She liked it. Found herself enjoying it, looking for him when she needed help or an opinion. In the past, sexual intimacy had been easy enough to find, but she'd built a wall against the relationships becoming something more. Now she had inadvertently placed herself in a situation where she saw all that she'd been missing.

He might not be inside her head, but he might be moving into her heart and that was much more dangerous, a place that what he was could be excused away.

Chilton's prissy voice as he had twirled a bright pen_: A monster._

The afternoon sun heated her chilled bare legs and arms and dried her clinging shirt. She tilted her face to its blaze again. Lecter clucked in concern, muttering something about sunscreen, but she ignored him.

His low voice was close to her ear: "Get comfortable," he said and opened his knees.

She hesitated, but drowsiness from her poor sleep made a nap seem the natural next step on a lazy Sunday afternoon. The doctor didn't insist, and reached out to tugged at his fishing pole while she thought it over. Deciding, she crawled into the cage of his limbs, relaxing against his broad chest, her arms draped over his thighs.

When was the last time she'd had full body contact with another living being? How many dead bodies had she touched in that time? She understood why a caged man would want to touch someone of his own volition rather than be forcibly manhandling, but since she'd brought the doctor to this place, his fingertips were always grazing her skin, light as a feather, just as their fingers had first touched.

And she didn't mind.

Her palms burned on the rock, so she tangled her arms around his legs. Her wet shorts slowly seeped a large stain against his pants. His beard stroked her cheek with his steady breathing. He still worked at drying her hair, holding it out to catch the sun, letting the strands drift on the warm breeze. She reached up as if to touch the golden light and Lecter snared her hand, bringing it to his lips.

She watched a long water moccasin swim through the very current she'd paddled as the doctor's tongue followed the grooves of her palm. With curiosity, she noted the hitch in her own voice when she said, "Maybe the store'll have some fresh steaks, or I suppose we can kill another chicken."

He chuckled and let her hand go. She gripped his bare ankle as though hanging on for dear life.

"Don't worry; our hens will live another day," he promised. "I've set traps in the woods. Surely there'll be a rabbit."

"Add poaching to our crimes," she muttered.

The throaty calls of wild doves from the branches overhead made her glance up and the sunlight blinded her. Everything went white, not the black of the dungeon, but all her other senses became alert. She heard his heartbeat, smelled the deep catfish mud on his hands, tasted the richness of his blue eyes. Her lips parted as she fought to breathe.

Under her thumb on the inside of his ankle, his pulse thumped slow and true.

_His pulse never got above 85, even when he ate her tongue._

His mouth descended toward hers, blocking out the sun and she could see the tenderness and wonder in his gaze. She felt no fear; would she ever feel fear again? She wondered if this is what the nurse saw right before he tore her face apart with his teeth.

Clarice must have said that aloud. Putting her away from him, Lecter leapt up and went to his fishing pole, checking the line with shaking hands.

"Don't you trust me, Clarice?" he finally asked, his back still to her as he focused on the oily swirling river water running at his feet.

She lay back on the warm rock, staring up into the bright sky once more. "Doesn't matter if I trust you or not. Do you trust yourself?"

He couldn't answer her and this was an unexpected and confusing realization for him.

xox

It was the doctor's turn to sulk on the drive back to their farm. As soon as he stepped out the car, he told her, "I'm going to check my traps. Don't start dinner without me."

She watched his stride toward the woods, an axe handle swinging at his side. Giving a shrug, she went into the house. Perhaps their domesticity could be a bit too normal at times.

Lecter moved silently through the woods. Such searches took him back to his childhood and hunts in the lands around the family estate. It's when he first knew that he was not like other boys, how his senses were so much more alert and he could find prey better than their hounds-

A low guttural sound caught his attention. He followed it through the dim undergrowth. A hunched bare back, bristling with coarse hair was familiar and disgusting. A feral hog was rooting in the deep loam with singular focused intent.

Raising his axe handle, Lecter hurled it at the beast and it retreated with a squeal and a grunt. He approached to see what the creature had been after.

The tip of a human clavicle glowed up at him from the dark earth. Working carefully, he exposed the body. The flesh was mostly rotted and eaten away by visitors such as the hog. Tattered clothing hung on the remains. What once been tight jeans slip away from the pelvic bones- a young female who'd not reproduced...Or had not given birth yet. He delicately stirred tiny bones nestled atop the sacrum. "Gail, I presume," he murmured. Raising his head, he tried to judge where he was. Perhaps on the abandoned property next to theirs but certainly close. Whomever had been using these woods for his personal playground must be irritated that they had moved in.

God was testing him; he could see that clearly Today, all the pieces were being laid before him, like many dishes on a heavily-laden banquet table. But he would do as he always did when that entity presented him with a challenge. He would go his own way.

He began to cover the remains. He'd aided Clarice solve a crime once, like a schoolboy with a crush helps the pretty cheerleader do her homework. That was the past though, and he had their future to think of. It was a life that he'd planned for them far away from these woods and he wasn't going to allow her to be pulled back into her old duties and sense of responsibility.

Retrieving his axe handle, he turned his back on the crime scene and resumed his search for his traps.

End ~ Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8:

Lecter strode up the dirt road, his steps light but purposeful. He was looking for one particular name on a rusted mailbox...Brocker...

When he found it, he turned up the lane. Unlike the driveway to nearly every other home in the area, the sides were mowed to short stubble and the little house at the end was bright, its white vinyl siding shining in the sunlight. But it was an utterly dull home, with no character and the cheap appearance of a dime store plastic toy tossed down on a scrub lawn. Their own comfortably shabby farmhouse was surrounded by a riot of flowers and colorful shrubs, which Clarice encouraged as long as her sight lines to any approach were maintained. This house didn't even have a single daisy in a windowbox.

The doctor mounted the two-stepped stoop and knocked. He didn't watch the windows, but saw a curtain flick from the corner of his eye. He thought perhaps Mrs. Brocker would not answer. He intentionally planned his visit for when he knew that Sam Brocker would have his shift at the papermill. He'd picked up bits and pieces of information about his target from the other men at the Saturday auction or Mrs. Kreet, a font of local information.

Unburdened by the rote of police procedure, Lecter had been free to form his own conclusions as to the murderer of the body in the woods. From even just their few brief meetings, Sam Brocker fit the profile of a killer quite well.

The church deacon was obviously fixated on authority figures, giving himself the facade of a police officer, even if he couldn't be one-the doctor had heard that Brocker had failed the academy test three times, much to the amusement of all his neighbors. Apparently the Lamberts were not the only ones who would not want a cop in their neck of the woods.

Brocker had exhibited a need for control, particularly of women. All the gossip told Lecter that he was a failure at work and with women. Sam Brocker had stalked several pretty cheerleader-types in high school and had finally settled for the mentally slow, sixteen year old Iris Stuart, married off as soon as she reached the legal age for marriage with parental consent in the state of Virginia.

As if on cue, the door cracked and Iris peered out at Lecter through the screen door. "Yes?" she murmured barely above a whisper.

"I'm Don-T Lambert. Your neighbor over the crick," Lecter said, working as best as he could on his dialect.

"Yes?" she repeated, looking over his shoulder, checking if he were alone.

He lowered his voice, giving it the mesmerizing sing-song that had served him so well as a psychologist. "When I heard about your sister in church, I was deeply moved, Miz Brocker. You see, my own sister was taken from me sudden-like-"

"My sister ran away," Iris said stubbornly, pressing her round chin into her chest like a petulant child.

"But you've never heard a word..."

"No." She bit her plump, chapped lower lip.

"Perhaps I could come in?" he suggested in his snake charmer tone.

"I 'pose..." She held the door open and he passed into the dim, claustrophobic living room.

A huge Lazy-boy sat center stage, like a great naugahyde throne. Lecter avoided it and selected one end of a faded couch. Iris perched at the edge of what must be her chair, a much less imposing lounge chair covered in pink plush fabric.

"How long ago did Gail go missin'?" Lecter asked as soon as she was settled.

Iris twisted her fingers in her lap. "'bout a year."

"I hear tell that she was being trouble before she went-" he asked leadingly.

"Yes." Iris didn't elaborate.

He looked around the room, taking in the praying hands sculpture atop the single bookcase which only held Reader's Digest Abridged works and a set of encyclopedias from 1977. There were no family photographs on the walls, only more religious imagery and a few patriotic prints such as a bald eagle perched before a flying flag.

"Did she live here with you?" he asked next.

The woman showed him the whites of her eyes.

Lecter despised weakness and stupidity. He felt nearly overwhelming impatience. He was trapped in this place with these ignorant and slothful people. Even the enigma that was Clarice Starling wasn't enough to challenge him as each overheated day passed to another.

He needed some amusement, something stimulating...He could kill this melon-headed idiot of a woman and frame her husband, a man he already believed was a murderer. It would be a fun game to manage, keeping Clarice in the dark, the authorities from discovering them-

At that moment, he caught the slightest movement outside the window. Without turning his head, he watched with his peripheral vision. It was not Sam's thick dome, but a bright-haired woman...His archangel, like Michael, had dropped down from heaven to hold him back with a shining sword. He smiled gently at Iris.

She visibly relaxed. "Yes," she whispered. "She wa'dn't gettin' along with our parents, so she came here. But she just seemed to get worse-"

"And then she came up pregnant," he dared to suggest.

Iris' head dropped; an unspoken admission.

Her wispy voice suddenly became hard. "And me wantin' a baby so bad...That slut could just have one..."

His eyebrows raised in surprise, but before he could say anything more, the door swung open.

Iris leapt up and away from Lecter. He remained seated and faced the furious Sam Brocker.

"What the hell are you doin' here?" Brocker raged.

"Came by for a visit," Lecter said coolly as he finally rose to stand.

"What the hell for?" The stout man advanced on the doctor.

Not only stupid, but incapable of having any sort of discourse, Lecter thought impatiently. "What are you suggesting?" he said, dropping the facade of Lambert for a moment and exhibiting the full scorn of Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

He turned his contemptuous gaze on Iris and she shrank from it.

Smirking at Sam, Lecter brushed by him. "Thought I'd pay a call to extend my sympathies on the loss of your wife's sister, that's all."

"Loss?" Sam said, narrowing his eyes.

"Good day," was Lecter's only reply before leaving the Brocker home.

As he came to the end of their drive and turned onto the county road, Clarice appeared from the kudzu vines, parting them like making an entrance on a curtained stage. "Doctor-" she hissed.

He affected surprise. "Why, Clarice! Whatever are you doing here?"

"Son of a bitch-" she fumed.

"I was just payin' a call, my dear. You should try it yourself. People are beginning to talk about us."

"Our cover is folks who keep to themselves. You're out of character," she growled, matching his strides.

"I've decided to vary the characterization a bit. I've found these people to be unrepentant gossips. We cannot give them fuel."

Her voice lost its edge and became pleading: "Doctor, don't blow this-"

He could only smile. He should be irritated that she was following him, mapping his moves, but he found it amusing instead. Her greatest fear had been his natural inclinations would lead to their discovery by the authorities but it appeared that it was her need to save the lambs, even those already dead, which could expose them. He would guard against that at all cost.

"What are you thinking, Doctor?" she prompted.

"That I shall be going to the auction tomorrow morning," was his only reply.

Clarice was changing the windshield wipers on the Camaro when she heard a heavy vehicle coming up the drive. Retrieving the .45 Glock 30 which she kept under the driver's seat, she sidled to the doorway of the shed, holding the pistol behind her thigh.

A rust-covered pickup pulled a rattling animal trailer cautiously up their pocked driveway. The doctor came out to the stoop, his satisfied smile telling her this was his doing. She slipped the gun under an oily rag on the shed's workbench and went to greet the visitors.

They were Herb, a man with a huge belly encased within stained overalls, and Ollie, a man with an even larger stomach and much filthier clothing. They exchanged manly, mumbled greetings with Lecter.

"My wife, Bea," the doctor said, pulling her close with a protective hand on her hip.

She gripped his wrist and squeezed, but he didn't move his hand. The men grinned their greeting, approving of Don-T's choice in a woman. She seethed inside but asked if they'd like refreshment.

"No, no, thank you much," Herb rumbled. "We just come by to drop off your present."

Her heart sank when she heard movement in the trailer. She forced herself to coo, something she never thought she'd be capable of. "Oh, Don-T, what have you gone and done?"

"Hon, you gonna love this," Lecter said into her hair, his teeth nipping the top of her ear.

"Well then, let's see it," she said testily.

Ollie hurried like some fleeing hippo to lower the trailer's back ramp. As soon as he dropped it, two squealing, fleshy hogs came rumbling down.

Clarice clung to Lecter's arm for real and hissed, "Really, darlin', you shouldn't have."

Ollie chased the swine with a long stick, giving off odd cries that appeared to bring them in line.

The doctor called over her head, "Jus' put them in the barn there," then murmured back to Clarice, "They're not the surprise; those are for slaughtering."

Clarice counted up their livestock, adding the two pigs. She had watched the doctor enjoy the challenges of managing the farm. But how long would he chase this ball of string before he looked for a new toy?

"Are you planning your revenge?" she said. "Are these Doctor Chilton on cloven hooves?"

"I'm not holding the swine responsible for the events at Muskrat Farm," Lecter said airily.

He tugged her hand, drawing her closer to the trailer. Something else moved in the depths.

"Like any beast in the herd, they were only following their masters."

Herb had gone into the trailer, and the doctor called to him, "Bring her out."

As soon as Clarice heard the footfall, she knew it was a horse. At first her heart leapt, but common sense quickly prevailed. It'd probably have foundered, or be blind in one eye, or untrained-the doctor had bought it at the weekly auction after all.

Herb led out a small chestnut mare with protruding, bright eyes taking in everything as her large square head swiveled around. She gave one sharp scream, calling out for other horses, but only got an echo back. Lecter looked startled at the sound, and for the first time, a bit worried.

"Hey now, you stop that," Herb said, looking at Clarice nervously as he shook the rope to keep the horse's attention.

Clarice checked the mare over, humming low in her throat to calm the animal. Her legs looked fairly clean and unblemished, although her hooves were untrimmed, putting her back on her heels. Clarice ruffled the patches of long, sunburned hair covering her hide and it came loose in tuffs.

"Well?" the doctor said.

There was a coolness in that word, showing he didn't appreciate women who inspected presents, even looking the gift horse in the mouth as Clarice pulled the mare's lips up to peer at her teeth.

"She looks like she's about eight," said Clarice. "Is she broke, Herb?"

The big man shrugged. Ollie shrugged behind him.

There were calluses at the corners of the mare's mouth; she'd had a bit. And she didn't seem to mind being touched and poked.

"Guess I'll find out the hard way," Clarice said.

Leading the mare to the barn, she called over her shoulder, "Thanks, boys."

They mumbled responses, shy in the presence of a commonsense woman. Lecter shook their hands and extended his thanks, which they took with more sangfroid.

She turned the mare out in the one pasture they had with decent fencing and watched her trot about, kicking her back legs out with a head toss and snort.

"I know how you feel, girl," she said wistfully. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

Lecter came up behind her. "What do you think?"

"What's her name; did they say?"

"She was listed as an aged mare named Missy, but that doesn't suit."

"That's no good," she agreed.

"I suggest Boudica," he said, draping his arm around her waist.

She stepped forward out of his grip. "Kinda fancy for a grade quarter horse." Leaning on the top rail of the fence, she said, "She's a liver chestnut," and grinned at him. "Musta been what caught your eye."

The horse came up behind her and breathed in her ear. He watched, tense, waiting to see if the animal would bite, but Clarice didn't move away.

"I don't know these sort of details about horses," he said, still tense as the mare's lips flickered at her hair. "I just liked the look in her eye."

"Then you know enough about horses," Clarice said, gently pushing the exploring mouth away. "Let me hop on and see what happens."

"Are you certain that's prudent?" he said. "I meant to get you a saddle and bridle, but couldn't find anything of quality at the feed and seed."

"If I can't ride her bareback, riding in a saddle won't help."

She fastened Boudica's rope's clip on one side of the halter and tied the rope to the other. Leading the mare to the fence, she scrambled onto her back.

Lecter found emotions he'd never experienced nibbling around the edges of his heart: fear, concern, worry, fretfulness. He trusted Clarice to take care of herself, but now her fate was balanced on the spine of an eight hundred pound animal. He slid through the fence rails to join her in the pasture.

Clarice flashed him a grin of true delight and led the mare in a circle with he as the axis.

"Let's see what happens," she said, and squeezed Boudica's sides.

The horse swished her tail in irritation; Clarice laughed and squeezed again. Finally, Boudica broke into a trot and now Clarice had a whole other problem. Her laughter choked off, she grabbed handfuls of mane and hung on for dear life.

"Clarice, do be careful," Lecter warned.

"I'm fine," she called back and kicked the mare into a lope.

Lecter became dizzy but continued turning to keep her under his watchful eye. The mare's mane and tail streamed out and Clarice's matching red hair bounced in time to her rocking gait. Then the horse squealed, kicked out, and she tumbled off.

He was at her side even before she came out of her tight roll position. "Hold still," he said, feeling at her arms and legs for breaks.

She slapped his hands away, her eyes already on the horse. Boudica stood in the far corner of the pasture, chewing on a tall weed with studied casualness.

"I'm all right; no worries."

She came up behind Boudica, saying, "Are we going to play, or are you going to stay still?"

The mare watched her approach out of the corner of her eye, then began to walk off when her rider neared. Clarice stomped on the rope's trailing end, stopping her.

"I really think you should wait until we can acquire a saddle," Lecter said.

Clarice hopped back on. "I just need to build the muscles up again."

"There are muscles for being thrown?" he asked but she only started to lope around him again.

Clarice finally decided Boudica had had enough for the day. Lecter, light-headed, leaned against the barn wall as she prepared a stall. She checked the walls for protruding nails, and when satisfied, hung buckets and filled them with water.

She told him: "I'll have to go to the feed and seed for some proper hay, maybe some grain, if her belly can handle it."

"I'll check the auction for a saddle," he said, determined.

She grinned at him for what had to be the hundredth time that afternoon. "All right, all right, Daddy."

"I've told you; I have no interest in taking on the role of your Daddy," he ground out, and turning on his heel, headed back to the house.

She watched him go. "He couldn't be Daddy, girl, that's for sure," she said to Boudica.

In reply, the mare only frisked her for a treat. "I suppose you're used to men like him," Clarice continued. "Menfolk accustomed to getting their own way."

She leaned against the horse's flank, finding a good sounding board in the muscle and warm coat. "I guess the question is, what is the way he wants?"

When the animal remained mute, she looked around the barn as if to discover an answer. Instead, she found a pitchfork, and went about breaking up a bale of hay for bedding. Hard labor always pushed away complex questions.

It was dusk before she dragged herself into the house. The little farmhouse was lost in the heavy blanket of black trees strung against the navy sky. Flickering candles lined the porch railing and glowed in every room, making the house seem afire.

In the doorway, she called out, "Doctor, did the power go out?"

He spoke from the dim hall. "No. I thought you'd enjoy a hot bath."

As the stiffness settled on her muscles, she decided that did sound good and told him so.

"Then slip into your robe," he recommended. "I've run the water."

Stepping from the warm shadows, he handed her a tumbler. She took a sip and found it to be Jack Daniels heavily laced with sugar and lemon.

She headed to her room and stripped off her sweaty clothes, taking deep draughts from her delicious drink. Pulling on her robe, she considered the situation. A man and a woman, living together in a small house with only one bathroom could have turned into some silly scenes from a bad 1970's sitcom, but they were two intensely private people, for whom dignity was second nature.

However, as the summer days had heated and become more humid, his gaze strayed to her bare, damp skin more and more.

_Do you feel eyes on you?_

The truth that she could not tell the doctor, or even the ever-watchful Jack Crawford while being debriefed by him, was that Lecter's gaze never had made her feel uncomfortable. When she turned away from it, that was to turn her face from the sun's nourishing heat.

And if he had been a fantastical creature kept in a cage when she first met him, the comfort now extending to his physical presence always close by. She was supposed to be afraid of him; everyone said so. It was just easy to forget that when each day was spent working side by side at a common purpose.

And now he'd given her a gift...would he give her what she wanted the most? ...to feel fear again?

Padding out to the back porch, she found the tub filled with steaming water and surrounded by more candles. As she scrambled in, she discovered two things. One, she was sore as hell. Second, the drink had gone straight to her head. The last step down into the mint-scented water was a doozie, leading to her splashing, cursing and almost slipping completely under. Then she laughed.

His quick step stopped outside the porch. "Are you all right, Clarice?" he called in.

Now, that was a good question. She was naked, in a dark room, with Doctor Hannibal Lecter just a few feet away. This could be judged as not right. But on the other hand, she hadn't spilled her drink, so things could be looking up. She took a long gulp from the glass.

"Sure am," she said, lolling her head back. He stood in the doorway, staring at the wall, hands lightly clasped at his waist.

Still no fear.

Glancing around, she spotted the sponge that she needed on the washing machine. Turning her gaze to her foot toying with the tub's faucet, she waved her hand at the sponge in an unspoken request.

When she heard the hesitation in his footfall as he approached, she smiled into her drink.

~ End Chapter 8


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9:

Lecter eased across the screened porch and retrieved the sponge from atop the washing machine. Keeping his gaze at her eye level, he offered it to Clarice. She was making no move to shield her nude body, but he gave her privacy nonetheless.

Instead of taking the sponge, she raised her nearly empty tumbler. "You're a damn good barkeep, Doc."

"Perhaps you should eat something before having more," he suggested as he moved behind the tub, dropping the sponge in as he passed.

"I bet you never been drunk in all your days," she said, blinking like an owl.

He pulled a stool over and sat down behind her. Taking the glass from her slack hand, he placed it on the floor.

"No, I have not. That holds no appeal for me."

He began to pin up her damp hair. It was growing longer and lush, repairing the damage she'd brutally done.

"Never let loose, eh?" she said.

He grabbed a towel from the dryer and folded it.

"Although we have not-what is the term? Hung out? -I do not imagine you are the life of the party either."

He nudged her shoulder and she leaned forward obediently so he could tuck the makeshift pillow behind her back.

"First off, you're the one who mixed the drink," she said. "And second, I've just got a little buzz on. It'll wear off in a bit."

His mouth was hovering at the nape of her neck. "Damn," he murmured.

Shifting, she winced. "Damn is right. I'm gonna have quite the bruise on my hip."

"Please allow me." He held out his hand for the sponge.

She was clenching it rhythmically as she would squeeze a hard rubber ball for hand-strengthening exercises. He waited. The dark blue dusk waned and blackness washed over the yard outside the porch. A flicker of white, like torn rice paper, then another, as though floating on a breeze, appeared. Wings battered against the screens, trying to get at the candles' flames. Her breathing picked up slightly.

"What is it?" he asked.

She handed him the sponge. "Oh, I'm just being stupid."

"Tell me."

"Chasing Gumb around his dungeon left me with only one fear. I hear or see a moth and I-" She shuddered.

He smoothed her tight shoulders with the sponge, careful not to touch her skin with his fingertips. "Everyone has something. There's no shame in it."

"Sure...right. Fine with the likes of Hannibal Lecter sponging off my back, but a moth, shakin' like a leaf," she said drowsily.

"Sounds right to me," he said.

Changing subjects, she mused, "I need to find a farrier for Boudica. Her feet are too long and got some cracks. If only-" She stopped abruptly.

"If only?" he finally prompted.

"I knew a horse shoer-before. But I won't be calling him."

She motioned for her drink and he handed it to her.

"An odd friendship for an FBI agent with few friends."

She drained the glass of its sweet, strong dregs. "Are you cataloguing every man I've ever known?"

"I'm simply interested in how you form relationships."

"Sure...right." She licked the glass's rim, finding that last tang of lemon taste. "Mike is-was, John's brother."

"John Bringham?"

"Yep."

"Stands to reason."

"Why?" she challenged.

"Am I allowed to say his name?"

"Yeah, yeah," she said.

"This Bringham fellow seemed like a village blacksmith sort. Descended from a long line of hardworking smithies, banging on their anvil-"

"Yes, we're all just our roots, aren't we? Education, nutrition doesn't matter. It's who we've been through all time. Being back here in the hills has reminded me very strongly exactly who I am."

"And who I am?"

She swirled the water with fingers. "You're the patron," she said, rolling her 'r.' "Sitting in your manor house, perhaps summoning the village wench up for some slap and tickle when you need amusement."

With a light touch, he brushed a tiny bruise that had risen on the point of her shoulder blade as if he could wipe it away.

"But the village wench would resist, staying true to her values," he suggested. "You said before that you feel a thousand years old. Perhaps what you sense is that you were born in the wrong time. These complex modern mating rituals must bore you. I see you simply walking up to our simple smithy, looking him over, and saying, this I want. Marry me."

"You have quite the imagination but it's dead wrong," she said. "I couldn't-"

"Couldn't?"

"Wouldn't," she conceded. "You'd be surprised to know you and John shared one quality- an over-inflation of my worth. I had to straighten him out on that."

Lecter sat back on his stool, holding back every word that hovered on his lips. He unfurled his tight fist, making his hand gently pluck away her empty glass.

"Allow me to refresh your drink," he said and was gone.

She picked up the floating sea sponge and rubbed its rough surface over her calves and did a quick if hazy check-in.

Scared yet?

Nope.

She should leap up and lock the door behind him; that's what any sane woman would do.

She shrugged. To have he walk around and stare at her through the screens, joining the moths?

_Do you covet what you see?_

After the events at Paul Krendler's house, people had asked her over and over, in one way or another, how she felt knowing that Hannibal Lecter had seen her nude; had touched her body. She had deflected any questioning. None of them would understand that the doctor had seen another type of nakedness years before, and the flesh had been one more layer-and perhaps easier for her expose.

So tonight he was seeing her conscious and naked. Just another layer peeled back...And she was finally feeling something. It nibbled at her edges, tingling her skin like the invigorating herbs steeping in the hot water. Only, it had been so long since she'd felt scared that she wasn't sure if this was her missing emotion.

The doctor returned with a refilled tumbler and a plate of blood orange segments. "We must get something inside you." He sipped the drink, testing it, and his eyes widened.

She chuckled at the sight. "You can't beat 'em, join 'em."

He preferred wine over spirits and remembered why. The drink's power swarmed to his head. Sitting rather abruptly back on the stool, he offered her a section of orange. Her sharp teeth grabbed it from his fingers and she slurped it into her mouth. He held out another as one would feed a bird. She swallowed that as well, then leaned back on the towel. With his thumb, he chased a dark drop of juice running down her chin, catching it just in time. He licked his finger dry.

Still light-headed, he suggested, "Perhaps I could download instructions in horseshoeing online. I seem to be picking up these skills quickly."

She snorted undignifiedly into her drink.

Since she was making no move to shield herself, apparently giving her permission, the doctor finally allowed himself to gaze upon her naked form. Her breasts were bisected by the water's level. Beneath it, her pale torso wavered, blurry and misshapen. Her elongated legs lazily swam as an octopus' tentacles reaches for purchase. Firm half-breasts seemed to float on the steaming water. This surreal form intrigued him. He preferred realistic imagery, but perhaps he could try to capture this moment for the remaining empty space on his bedroom walls.

Lecter decided he must concentrate on something else. He filled the sponge with water, and wrung it out over her shoulders.

She tipped forward with a murmur: "Feels good."

He followed the riverlets with his tongue tentatively, but gained no reaction. Did she believe it was the water she felt gliding down her spine? As her head tipped to the side to offer him better access-or was she just unsteady? He was emboldened, daring to nip at the hard tendon connecting her neck to shoulder. His mouth stilled on her warm skin and he could almost taste her blood, moving like rushing streams so close underneath. He inhaled, the suction melding them. He yearned to swim in those red, warm waters, finally one with her.

"I thought I was the one who needed something in my stomach," she said blearily. His beard was soft as swan's down on her damp neck. She made her next words ring cold sober: "Are you trying to seduce me, Doctor?"

He lifted his head just enough to speak. "That is a very complicated question."

"I dunno. In the end, everyone does it the same way."

"Fucking, perhaps, but not seductions. What entices me may not intrigue another man, and as for you-"

"Yes?" Deftly, she pulled the plug with her toe and leaned forward to turn on the hot water tap.

He braced on the tub's smooth white rim, stopping himself from reaching for her. "I'm not certain what would satisfy you, not yet at least."

She wedged the plug in before settling back with a contented sigh. "So you're just fumbling around, seeing if you get any hits?"

Rebuked, he said, "My goodness, Clarice, your matter of fact assessment could tear the veil from any seduction."

"Now, now, you were doing fine," she said, sipping her drink.

The familiar tinkle of his long-ago phrase amused the doctor. "Thank you," he said with a nod of acknowledgement.

"You come with references, you know." She splashed the rising water, startling him.

He stilled her hand with his own. Mumbling against the curtain of her loosening hair, he said, "What do you mean?"

She studied their arms balanced together on the tub's edge. The crisp folds of his black linen shirtsleeve contrasted with his work-corded forearm and strong hand. His wedding ring glinted, and he rolled her own ring, loose from the hot water, around her finger. In theory, they only needed to wear the rings when they went out, but he never removed his and she didn't want to appear the coward by taking hers off.

What had she been talking about?

She shook her head and returned to the topic: "In the course of my investigations, it was necessary for me to interview your known acquaintances."

"I see," he said, his attention back on the conversation.

"Exactly," she said and turned the faucets off with her toe. "And you know what?"

He licked a drop of sweat from her earlobe. "What?"

"None of them would talk to me, at all. Only Mrs. Rosencrantz. The former Rachel DeBarry."

"Ah, yes, a delightful woman."

"She was a hoot," Clarice agreed.

"She liked you, didn't she?"

"I think so. She offered me some love life advice."

He raised an eyebrow at that thought.

"And she admitted freely to enjoying your company, but was very coy as to what activities that included. From that conversation, I developed a theory."

"Please share, Clarice."

"I think that means you were good in bed. Why else would they not talk? If you'd been impotent, or cried for your Mommy, or beat them, they could tell me that freely. But if you gave them pleasure, what does that say about them? They're disgusted and horrified with themselves, so they remained silent."

He tipped his head to meet her gaze.

"You are..." Speech was a burr caught in his throat. They were snared, as they'd been on the riverbank. Their mouths were close, her lips slightly parted. He breathed her air, she breathed his, but she didn't move, so he couldn't either. "...a dedicated investigator."

She simply nodded with a ghost smile.

If he couldn't find a new focus, he'd fall into the abyss. He touched her gunshot scar lightly, counting the stitch marks. Twelve, for the Apostles. "I hate any mark on your flesh, yet this is my mark, so I find it beautiful."

She melted back against the towel, her eyelids drifting shut. Was she his at that moment, like each little pucker left by his stitches?

Daring, his hands slid up her damp arms and he grazed her breasts with his thumbs. She only gave a deep sigh as a reaction. He finally gave in to temptation-he wanted to see her run, after all. He cradled her breasts as he would delicate antique alabaster cups.

Her breathing changed to a hum at the back of her throat, but she still didn't stop him. The most surprising sensation overcame him. He felt close to losing consciousness and found himself tipping forward. Once again, her neck was there for refuge, and he nestled in.

"I can make you feel so good," he murmured, his usually smooth voice oddly roughened.

At his words, he felt the slightest tension in Clarice, like the moment when a piano's hammer struck an over-tightened string, telling him the instrument was out of tune.

He changed it to, "You could make me feel so good," and she relaxed again. Yes, Clarice Starling could not accept any pleasure given to her but must please others.

His lips lightly traced her jawline and he smelled the sour and sweet of her drink as her mouth came to his brow. His hands slid from her breasts, diving underwater to stroke across her warm stomach, drenching his sleeves. His goal waved like red seagrass in the lapping bathwater.

His washcloth-covered hands had coaxed her thighs apart, wiping sweat and dirt from her pale skin. Routine hygiene care warred with concern over her perceiving a violation. He had looked up to check her response and her half-opened, drugged eyes had been watching him. No fear, no hate, no desire. He had rocked back, properly chastised. But he had sighted a pearl in its shell, glowing pink in the half-light.

He just wanted to look again-all he wanted to do this night was look-record for future consideration-perhaps touch briefly this time- not as a doctor...

Her lips whispered at his cheekbone, "Doctor."

"Yes, Clarice?" he asked, even though he knew what she was going to say.

Solemn gray eyes met his. "I should dry off."

"Of course. We must eat." He sat back on his stool, instantly cold and bereft at the loss of her heat. He breathed in and out, returning to his own body.

She pulled the plug out again.

"Allow me to help," he said when she stood.

Her firm voice said, "I'm fine," as she stepped over the tub's rim, ignoring his offered hand of support.

She slipped on her robe. "You know, I'm not really hungry. I'll head to bed."

She concentrated on not looking at him. As cowardly as that tactic was, she needed to put the barriers back up long enough to figure out what the hell had just happened.

"I understand," he said slowly. "But are you certain that I can't make you at least a light supper. No payment expected," he said, trying to return to their light teasing. He had enjoyed these past few minutes, their long-standing tension banished for an evening.

She squinted at him like an indignant little girl. "That's okay, I think you've done enough tonight."

"Have I?" he murmured. "It's your choice, you know."

"Really?" She leaned against the washing machine. "Do I have any choice in this?"

Puzzled, he asked, "What do you mean? I'm the one who was abducted. You're in charge here."

She gave a humorless laugh at his gall. "I don't mean you're controlling me or this situation. I just mean-" She watched the moths beat against the screens and he waited. Low, she finished, "I'm not in control either."

"Would that be such a bad thing?" he murmured.

"You're the last one who should be asking the question," she said. "Have you ever not been in control?"

"What do the psychological evaluations in my file say? Aren't I a crazed monster, tearing off body parts of those who step too close?"

"No, I think tearing off body parts gives you control. Or playing with people's minds. Or-"

She started to leave and he held her back. He prompted her, "Or?"

She raised her chin. "Seducing women."

He chuckled with the well-modulated tone of a sophisticate and she waited for him to call her a rube.

Instead, he shook his head ruefully. "Me, seduce you? What will make you even blink, Clarice?"

"Is that your objective? I mean, other than getting laid," she replied with a sneer.

"Don't denigrate what we do to each other," he ground out.

She shrugged, now on familiar ground.

"And don't dismiss yourself," he said, his earlier anger burning bright again. "I despise when you do that."

When she dropped her head again, the hair clips slipped loose. "I don't," she insisted petulantly, grabbing up her hair in white-knuckled fistfuls. "But I can't-"

He twisted away. "I know you can't. You think I don't understand? I don't feel the same way? Why would I want to feel as I do?" His eyes glowed. "If ever you needed to feel concern for your life, it would be because of that; that I would need to remove a troublesome distraction."

She grinned, an evil sight. "Right back atcha, Doctor."

Their standoff lasted for several long moments, then she said, "All right, I gotta get to bed," and turned away.

He slapped his hands on the washing machine in disgust.

"But-"

He peered over his shoulder, suddenly exhausted. "Yes?"

She quickly kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you for Bodie. She's the nicest present anyone's ever given me."

With a swish of silk, she was gone before he could react to her kiss or the bastardization of the mare's name.

She did not go out onto the new sleeping porch. Instead her footfall padded into her bedroom, and for the first time, he heard the door close.

She was right. Some privacy was necessary to sort through the evening's events. After changing out of his wet shirt and finding his cigar case and lighter, Lecter took off across the dark backyard, following the path lit by the half moon's beam.

Clarice watched his familiar set of shoulders be swallowed into the night from her bedroom window. Once he'd disappeared, she opened the sash to catch what breeze she could. Lying on the bed, she began her evening ritual to try to sleep, ignoring her jumbled thoughts and thrumming body.

That often meant planning her next garden project. But no even rows of waving green fronds came to her mind.

Her mind swarmed with memories of a sophisticated man in an expensive suit, wearing a heavy gold watch on his strong wrist. His drawling, educated voice. Pale eyes always watching her.

The newly minted F.B.I. badge was still burning fresh in her ill-fitting blazer's pocket. Tad Chambers had made her feel that she was something more than her deep roots in hard shale. And he promised her career would grow and flourish with his help from the Justice Department.

Her already flushed face went hotter in the dark, sweaty bedroom, remembering her ambition. Which blinded her to obvious questions like, why a Deputy Assistant Attorney General would be attracted to this raw-boned girl. And why she was drawn to that type of man.

Another dark night, another humid bedroom. Her limited sexual experience making her limbs tight with nervousness. Not wanting to disappoint him-

"What does he like?" Tad had demanded, his voice hoarse.

She'd literally looked around the room. "Who?"

"Come on, Clarice, show me what he likes," Tad had repeated, anger in his words.

As Tad had pinned her hands above her head, his superior weight pressing down, she had suddenly known. Remembered that Tad's friend at the Justice Department, Paul Krendler, had worked with Doctor Chilton to get Lecter out of his dungeon. Even then, she'd suspected that Chilton had somehow watched her and Lecter together. In a quick flash, she'd seen these men standing at urinals with their dicks in their hands, talking about her and the doctor.

She'd had to hurt Tad to get loose, humiliating him. God knows what he'd told Paul, but she figured that's what started the other man's pursuit of her; not desire, but disgust and the need to fuck the dirty bitch.

Tad Chambers hadn't been her last date fascinated with Hannibal Lecter. So she'd turned to fellow agents and cops for companionship, only to spend her free time talking about cases past and present. Those relationships had been simple sexual release, going nowhere but to eventual irritation, boredom, and the "It's not you; it's me," moment.

She was getting some excitement now. And finally finding out what Hannibal Lecter liked. Not the violence and domination those other men imagined but a fatal gentleness and reverence, his snare made of silk cords. Was he waiting for her to come to him, like he did with Pazzi? Would a sweet kiss become a knife blade's prick opening her skin? She'd watch her intestines fall out like a red waterfall and finally feel her blessed fear.

Her rusty laugh rattled around the confining bedroom. Lecter had pegged her fear of humiliation once. She knew that she wouldn't feel fear if he gutted her out-she'd only be pissed at herself. If he didn't kill her though...What option did that leave? So intent on recapturing one emotion, she had opened the door to others, possibly much more painful-fear was returning, but not in the way she intended. She has to step back and lock herself away in a dungeon for the time being.

She rolled on the bed, wiggling the wedding ring off her finger. Ten years of entwined with the doctor had left her the monster's bride in men's minds, but not tonight.

Laying it beside her handgun on the bedside table, she forced her fluttering eyelids to shut, and began listing what chores that she needed to do in the vegetable garden. Pull down the spent pea vines, weed the corn rows, put hay under the growing melons so they didn't bruise...

Under the dark trees, Lecter sat beside a large fallen log. He drew deeply from his cigar, replaying the feel of Clarice's skin under his touch and mouth, tasting his arousal more than the costly tobacco. Desire thudded in his bloodstream but he was glad that she had put a stop to it. Seduction was yet another act of control for him; she'd called him on that. This tremor in his hand as he lifted the cigar to his lips revealed how close to losing it that he'd come.

He was physically tired from a long day of work but unaccustomed, rapid thoughts darted around his skull like the bats in the branches far above.

Always before, even if it were solely sex that he needed, he took time with the exercise, creating an experience on par with one of his fine meals rather than some quick fuck on the level with a fast-food cheeseburger. He also always took great care to avoid emotional encumbrances. This situation with Clarice threatened to lead into an entanglement tighter than the kudzu vines swaying from the trees.

It was easy enough to say that he wanted to possess Clarice Starling. But he'd only made love to women under a guise; they never knew what he was. She did. Rejection would require a reaction and he didn't want to be forced into that corner. But what would capitulation-if it did ever come-demand?

He looked back toward the house. A few guttering candles flickered from the back porch. The rest of the house remained dark.

"You've spent a lifetime rejecting the love of good men," he said to the night. "Perhaps it's time to accept it from a bad man."

Still feeling a bit drunk from a long since swallowed sip of her drink, his hand ghosted across his thigh, but it didn't rest. He thought of the desecrated cat remains that they'd discovered nearby and could only chuckle at the thought of joining that low-life creature, furtively expelling his needs in the woods.

Pushing up to stand, he decided on another release.

Inside the house, he slipped by Clarice's closed door and entered his room. Flipping on the lights, he quickly gathered his sketching charcoals, already staring at the clean wall over his head. He'd make love to Clarice Starling tonight, his chalk stroking the smooth plaster surface, so like her now familiar skin.

Her face, filled with ecstasy and wonder; that was first image to appear. To watch him caress his canvas. Her nudity was chastely shielded by the wide span of a powerful cob's wings, but he had to add those long legs of hers, open and welcoming the bird's arching body.

Dawn lighted his windows by the time that he was finished. Standing back, his vision bleary, he admired his work. Glancing over his shoulder at the doorway, he realized that Clarice would not share his pleasure. Finding tacks and a sheet, he covered the drawing. It would have to remain for his soul enjoyment.

xox

After a stilted breakfast where neither looked at the other, they drove into town to pick up supplies for the mare. The doctor stayed in the truck when Clarice refused his help. She also waved aside the clerk's offer, and tossing a grain sack over her shoulder to bring it outside. Lecter had been waiting with the truck backed up to the store's deck. He jumped out to drop the tailgate.

She flipped the bag into the bed and told him, "I've just got a few more things; I won't be a minute."

Before going back through the door, she lingered at the bulletin board, checking the ads for farriers. He watched passersbyes look her over. She wore a tank top and shorts in the smoldering humidity and the bruises from the previous day's ride stood out in sharp relief against her white skin. His two marks, the old stitches and hickey, bracketed her collarbone. He knew what these folks, God-fearing church ladies and shiftless teen boys alike, were thinking about them. He visualized a scenario-then forced the cheap porn image from his mind.

Abruptly, he turned his back to her and stared full into the blazing sun until he was blinded. His jumbled thoughts of the night became as clear as the daylight. After passing over sixty years on Earth, was he finally yearning for a life mate? Was he building an intricately woven nest in these Virginia backwoods?

If so, Clarice Starling was not a good match. It was as ridiculous as suggesting the coupling of a jackal and a giraffe. If he were to quantify their attributes, nothing matched, neither age, background, nor interests. He had quickly discovered she would listen to his suggestions but heed very few. He doubted he could mold her willfully into that unusual creature that could be his equal. Or had he been defining his equal as a clone? Perhaps equality meant some quite different creature.

He should fuck her, kill her, flee across the world...

...Woo her, make love to her, see her reluctant smile once in awhile, give her safe haven for the rest of their days...a vision as bright and burning as the sun.

"You need anything?" she said behind him.

He blinked, regaining focus. He smelled molasses and cracked dry corn, pure, earthy odors, dark sweetness and plain starchy strength. He knew they came from the grain sack, but decided they'd be the smell of Clarice. He shook his head. "I can't think of anything-for now."

End - Chapter Nine


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10:

The doctor washed the morning dishes while Clarice was on her run. His protests about her running alone on the country roads fell on deaf ears. She was gone while he still talked. He had to use care not to break any dishes as he finished the spirited discussion in his head.

After he wiped dry and put away the last pan, the alarm went off. He assumed that it was Clarice returning, but as he went out onto the porch, it was Michelley Kreet coming up their drive, swinging a bucket, slopping milk as she walked.

"What are you doing here?" Lecter said disagreeably as he blocked her from mounting the steps. "I told you that I'd come to your grandmother's farm when I needed something."

"Is jus' milk," the girl mumbled, sloshing out even more as she swayed in place.

"Fine. Leave it," he commanded, staying on the porch. He could sense something dangerous was close. He glanced around the yard and peered toward the dark woods.

Michelley put the bucket down and dared to step nearer. Lecter's gaze snapped back to glare down at her.

"Get on home," he said. "I'll pay your grandmother later."

She started to gnaw on one pudgy finger. "You can give me money."

He raised his eyebrows. The danger was whispering in the overgrown grass at the girl's feet.

"I can give you bubbles," she whispered, "an' you can give me a dollar." She crept another step closer, reaching out for him.

"Get away from here," Lecter repeated clearly and distinctly. "Now."

She wavered on her feet but didn't move, the finger still sliding between her lips.

He raised his hand like an axe above his head.

"Doctor!" barked from the barn.

His head shot up. Clarice stood silhouetted in the doorway. She'd stopped in to check on her horse after her run.

She jogged to the house. "What's going on?" she demanded to know.

Michelley started hiccuping raggedly.

Clarice kept her gaze locked with the doctor's cold eyes but motioned to Michelley. "Go to my car-Now!"

Her harsh tone broke the girl's trance. Michelley shuffled off toward the barn. Clarice trailed after her, keeping herself from rushing the neighbor child's slow pace.

Once in the car, Michelley seemed to gain confidence. "I didn't mean nuthin'" she protested, even as she slumped down in the passenger seat.

"Just don't say anything," Clarice ordered through gritted teeth as she quickly drove to the Kreet's house. She hated leaving the child there, but she couldn't afford a public scene. She'd built her cage for Lecter, but she was one without the freedom to swing out her vengeful fists.

When she returned, the doctor sat on the porch, his feet propped on the railing, smoking a cigar. She stormed past him without stopping. He followed her, grabbing her wrist as she reached for the phone.

"No," he said.

She twisted in his strong grasp. "I'm just calling it in. It'll be anonymous."

"Nothing is anonymous back in these woods," he ground out. "So you stop her from being abused. Then her brother starts in on some other girl relative, or her uncles do and her grandmother looks the other way-these creatures are no more than rats in a box, chewing off their limbs from frustration. You can't save these lambs, Clarice."

"I'm not just going to stand by-"

"Place your call after we're gone."

That stopped her. "Gone?"

He gently removed the phone receiver from her hand and replaced it. "It's time we prepare our escape. I say that we go to Knoxville and practice our getaway personas. Work out any kinks. When you approach the security gates at the airport, I want you to be pitch perfect."

She wrenched from from his loose grip. "The term escape suggests we'll find a sanctuary somewhere," said Clarice. "We can never hope to be truly safe."

But he was right. Even in the heat of summer, she sensed the winter coming. Like the other vulnerable animals, it was necessary that they migrate, taking wing across the open sky before the dark clouds rolled in.

"I gotta take a shower," she said, "I stink."

After she slammed into the bathroom, Lecter made his way to her bedroom.

When he opened the closet, he discovered that she'd never opened the other garment bags that he'd hung up after his shopping trip. He shook his head. A woman without curiosity was a dangerous creature...

He brought several outfits from the bags and hung them on the curtain rod to decide which would suit the persona forming in his mind. He also opened the sealed makeup case that sat on her bureau, a fine film of dust on the top. Last, he retrieved the shoe boxes from the closet floor, lining up a few pairs beneath the hanging garments.

Clarice entered, wearing her satin robe but barefoot. Combing her damp hair, she looked around the room. She dropped onto the narrow bed, arranging herself with her natural grace, the thin material draping on her long body.

He stopped his ministrations and pulled up the room's only other seat, a straightback hickory wooden chair. Curling strands of her wet hair around his finger, he regarded the effect. She simply gazed back, waiting.

Since the night in the bathtub, her spine had remained rigid, her cheek always turned away. Her behavior reminded him of Bodecia's since the mare had settled into life on the farm. Once the horse came to realize that Clarice meant to mount her on a daily basis, she made her capture from the turn-out difficult. She didn't gallop away, but walked out of reach until Clarice's patience won. He supposed this was how the former agent nabbed criminals; simply out-waiting their inferior intelligence. At least, once cornered, Bodecia did not dignify the situation by fighting it. Her large dark eyes stared off to the woods, already thinking ahead, knowing a rider was the payment for freedom outside the enclosure.

Giving none of his internal reflections away, he suggested, "Curls will change your face."

"I'll just dye it blonde again." Clarice carefully shift the lapels of her gown and he realized that his gaze had been drifting.

He winced. "The color isn't the disguise. The FBI's computer software is looking for your features, right?"

She shrugged. "Yeah."

"Will you allow me to create our disguises and personas?" he asked. "Trust me, Clarice. I truly have the experience."

She rolled out his reach and looked around her bedroom again at everything that he'd brought out to the light of day. "Let me guess. My role shall require-" She rearranged her long legs. "Short skirts. Maybe a push-up bra?"

He frowned.

"Bright red lipstick?" she suggested, her sharp gaze noticing the makeup case.

"When have I ever given you the impression that I see you as some dress up doll, cum whore?" He smiled cynically. "Surely you appreciated my taste in a lovely dress, even if the evening did not turn out as I hoped."

She bit down on a retort.

Leaning back in the chair, he crossed his legs and twined his fingers, clasping his hands around his top knee. "But you've given me an idea-"

Clarice couldn't help it; she had to laugh. She tossed her hands in the air. "As long as it's my idea, I guess it's all right."

"No, no," he said coolly. "Disguise is less about putting on a fake mustache than creating a different personality. Louder and more vivacious can make you less noticeable than pulling down a dark hat over your hair."

She shot him a withering look. "No, you do not hide your light under a bushel."

"And no matter how hard you try, you glow," he replied.

"Just remember, I don't have your gift for performance," she warned.

He nodded, preoccupied with his furious planning.

"I'm gonna have to fit in...Where are we going?" she challenged.

He only rose to flip through the garments hung at the window. "I think the orange suit will be best," he said, avoiding her question.

Clenching her jaw in frustration, Clarice flopped back on the bed to stare up at the cracked ceiling. "You don't need to bullshit," she said. "You can just say you don't trust me."

"I trust you with my life."

He put a delicate yellow blouse under the jacket and nodded in approval.

"But not the truth," she countered.

When he said, "You don't want to hear the truth," she became so angry she could neither speak nor move.

His addition of, "I'm protecting you," made her vision go black for a moment.

"Let me suggest another motive for this particular disguise," she sneered, rolling on her side to glare at his wide back. "You're schooling me in my future role, for our eventual new lives of your making."

He peered over his shoulder. "You think that I mean for you to spend the rest of your life in a short tight skirt?"

She wasn't going to back down. "Perhaps this trip is part of an initiation. Whatever our new lives are, I'll be at a disadvantage. A symbolic set of high heels." She squinted at the line of shoes on her floor. "I can't run in them, you know."

"I have complete faith in you, my girl," he said with a smile, returning to the chair. "You'll adapt; fit in."

Instead of smiling back, she remembered how much her feet had hurt after she'd scrambled down the dark slope to the launch, trying to stop his escape. Of wrenching off that dress after the hours of questioning from various authorities. First, because it had sunk in that she was no longer one of them; she'd be a suspect for the rest of her days. But mostly because the quality garment fit like her skin, reminding her of his intimate knowledge of her.

He'd been watching the anger flicker across her features like growing flames.

As though reading her thoughts, he pointed out, "You are no longer the hunter but the hunted. They are profiling you now. Do you want to know what that profile will say?"

She suddenly saw her pictures on the walls in her former dungeon office, lined up beside his photographs.

"No," she said, knowing it wasn't going to stop him.

To her surprise, he did not list her faults and flaws, but only teased her. "That you'd never be caught dead in such an outfit." He nodded toward the ensemble on the curtain rod. "They know that you are stubborn, inflexible. They'll be watching for you to be looking exactly like you-"

He reached out and traced the slight curve of her nose, the shape so distinctive to him now. "Yes, we'll need to shield that," he mused.

"A big floppy hat," she suggested.

He ignored her and pursed his lips. His gaze travelled over her lounging form. "I had hoped that removed from the stress of your work, you would put on some weight and fill out a bit, but despite eating that disgusting bacon lard, you remain as slim as ever."

She hid her face in her shoulder, but he still saw the corner of her smirk, and she flexed her thin arm. He suddenly adored her in one sharp, painful stab.

"We'll have to purchase padding for your hips and chest to create that certain type of woman-"

"A certain type-" she parroted.

He folded his arms.

"But won't they expect that you've seduced me? Turned me to your ways?" she asked and he wondered if she was expressing her own fears or expectations.

"No," he said huskily. "Your profile will say that that you can never be broken."

This time when she shielded her face in her shoulder, there was no smile.

xox

The doctor drove their pickup into the Knoxville airport long-term parking lot. He'd dropped Clarice off at the outbound flight area where they'd exchanged casual partings for the security cameras. Instead of checking in for a flight, she headed to the rental car desk. As she faced the young clerk, she fought to control her expression. This was her most dangerous outing since abducting the doctor. Surely photos of herself and Lecter had been distributed to airport personnel all over the Southeast.

She hated to admit it, but Lecter had pegged her inability to play a role. Unlike fictional agents on television programs, she was unused to undercover assignments in elaborate disguise. She lacked an actor's natural sociopathic tendencies to now blithely chat up this runty boy, barely out of his teens, whose gaze couldn't decide whether to linger on her cleavage or her glistening lips. In a moment, he was going to see beyond the strawberry blonde curls that twirled around her brightly made-up face and sound the alarm. She shook it off and pressed herself to be vivacious. The doctor wasn't within eyesight, but she wasn't going to fail his challenge in the first five minutes.

Lecter took the parking lot shuttle to the airport. He ducked into the restroom with his duffle bag and changed from his nondescript work clothes to a suit. Then he took a cab into downtown. At the Marriot, he whirled through the huge glass revolving door, exhilarated to be out and about again. His own disguise was less eye-catching than the one he'd created for Clarice, but no one would connect his too sharply tailored suit, purple dress shirt, silver tie and Panama hat with either the prisoner Hannibal Lecter or Don-T Lambert.

As he passed his newest ID over the check-in counter, he let his gaze wander, stopping on the young woman at the other end. Her short, tight skirt exposed an impossibly long pair of legs, pinned up on high heels. She was having an animated conversation with the young woman checking her in, reaching over to slap the girl's plump arm. She met the doctor's hungry eyes with her own cool ones, then dismissed him with a toss of her copper hair.

The clerk serving him said, "Now there's a cocktease, right, Dr. Wright?" He chuckled at his own slight joke.

Lecter grinned with sharp teeth. He read the clerk's name tag. "Not at all, George. I don't know that lovely young woman, but I'll guess that she deserves a deliberate courtship over low-class pick-up attempts."

George's leer faded.

Clarice peeked at him again from behind her curtain of curls. This hairstyle was coming in handy. She didn't like the predatory way the doctor was watching his unaware clerk. She shot him a quelling look and the doctor pursed his lips with his little boy pout.

George checked his computer screen. Lowering his voice, he said, "Even if you're not interested, your rooms are next to each other."

The doctor watched the lithe creature saunter past him towards the elevator, a suitcase-toting bellboy trailing behind.

"How handy. Perhaps she'll need me to fill her ice bucket." He accepted his key from the clerk. "Allow me to give you some advice, George. Ladies appreciate respect and subservience."

He left a puzzled young man behind the counter and picked up the trail of the lovely younger woman.

~end chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11:

After Clarice unpacked, she sat on the bed, staring at the connecting door to Lecter's room. No knock came to it or the hallway door. She opened the minibar refrigerator and scanned the bottles before turning away decisively and starting to pace. Her feet were killing her but she wasn't going to take off the high-heeled shoes. She had to get used to this. She slumped on the edge of the bed, cradling her head in her shaking hands.

Away from the cradle of the Virginia hills, her old nemesis panic was thumping with every beat of her pulse. Surrounded by the bustle of a large city, the insanity of what she'd done was clear and the possible humiliation of capture and prison was just one identification away.

For the first time in years, anxiety had overwhelmed her the morning that Lecter had left her at the farm. Before that, she hadn't felt it that strongly since she'd entered the packed halls of Virginia Tech as a country girl with an eight dollar haircut. When she spoke, the other students had smirked. Her professors had been perplexed, checking the rolls again to assure the test scores really did belong to Clarice Starling with her rough dialect and freckled face. The voice in her head chanted over and over: _you don't belong here..._

Quantico had been no better. Focusing on her studies; hours honing her sharp-shooting on the target range; running through the hills; pushing away the discontent. Ardelia and she had bonded as outsiders. Their paths had diverged when her disillusioned friend had left the F.B.I. Clarice had carried on doggedly, pushing back her endlessly loneliness.

She'd been alone since she was ten years old. But she realized with a start she would never been again until she or Lecter died. At that thought, she leapt up from the bed, snatched her purse and left the room.

She stepped off the hotel elevator. Glancing around, she saw signs welcoming a medical supplies convention. The sideways glances from passing men reminded her of her appearance.

Rather than return the looks with her usual level gaze, she tossed her head in that way she'd observed other women preen at male attention. She had to become what her clothes were, to be this new person as long as it took to get out of the country, and then-what new personality did the doctor have planned for her?

A glowing neon sign caught her eye.

The hotel cocktail lounge was filled with conventioneers cut loose from their marital leashes. Ignoring how her skin pimpled at their attention, she ordered whiskey on the rocks at the bar. When the bartender raised his eyebrows, she knew that she'd made an error. It was not the drink of her persona for the next few days; Candice Starling had been left back on the farm.

"Hi," came from behind her.

Without looking at the intruder, she nodded a greeting and scanned the room through the smoky haze. She couldn't stop it; she was still the hunter even as she was in sights.

She spotted a man sitting at a dark corner table. Only his forearms were visible in a pool of light, his strong hands folded around the stem of a wineglass, right lying casually over the left, covering his scar. A thin cigar smoldered in an ashtray beside his elbow.

So he wasn't upstairs in his room; he was waiting for her. Well, she wasn't looking for him.

Turning away, she addressed the smirking middle-aged man beside her: "Here for the convention?"

He nodded eagerly. Exposing large square teeth like a snapping turtle, he asked, "You on business too?"

Clarice realized she had a very low threshold for stupidity. Perhaps Lecter was right; they shared many qualities after all. She sneered at the bumbling salesman. "My business is no business of yours."

That wiped the grin off his face. "Listen, bitch-"

She stood tall, looming over him. "_You_ listen, fucker. You say one more thing to me, I'll find out your name, then your home phone number and call your wife."

He started babbling: "You-"

"That's your one free word," she cut him off.

He blinked once before walking away.

She checked on Lecter. He was still at his table; his glass now empty. She told the bartender to send over another.

When she sat beside him, he said, "My dear, you must learn how to reject men with something less blunt than bullets and threats."

She slapped his face with one sharp blow, attracting startled looks from around the bar. The impact shook off all the tension vibrating under her skin.

"You're right," she said, feeling much calmer. "I'll try to be more subtle in the future."

He tipped his head in reply. When the cocktail waitress brought his drink, he told her, "We'd also like a Jack Daniel on ice, please." He tossed a crumpled hundred on her tray.

Clarice said, "I don't want something so rough," with a coy shake of her head.

Lecter mimicked her motion with a slight smile. The imprint of her hand was fading from his cheek.

Looking up at the waitress, she asked, "Gimme a Lemon Drop, please. They're so yummy."

He nodded and she squelched the rush of pleasure at his approval.

As soon as the woman was out of earshot, Clarice said, "You know, I worked hard for that money. I don't appreciate you handing it out like party favors."

"Worked hard?" He drew off his cigar before placing it back in the ashtray.

"I sold my soul."

He sipped his wine. "Truly, your sense of dour melodrama can be tiresome."

She leaned close, running one of her artificial fingernails up the back of his hand. "Is this what you want-you prefer? Something a bit more compliant? Someone like-" She searched her buzzing mind for the name she'd taken on. "Candi Tyler?"

He pulled his hand away. "You disappoint me when you grasp onto the obvious theory, Clarice. You think I chose this appearance for my own pleasure. Nothing could be further from the truth."

She smirked but remained silent.

"These garments repulse me; that face paint offends me. Perhaps this is hard for you to comprehend. I'm certain that all your life you've been told that if only you put some effort along these lines that you'd be attractive. However, I prefer your natural form to be like a river stone; smooth and solid to my touch."

She looked away.

He took another quick swallow from his glass. "You must believe me when I tell you, I find this as puzzling as you do-"

Clarice fumbled for something to fight about. "An appreciation of my pure, simple form is why you put me in an Armani gown that covered just about nothing?"

"It was a plain black ribbon wound around that stone. The skin between your free-moving breasts glowed like polished ivory. You don't require the enhancement of a hooker's undergarments."

Puffing on his cigar once more, he held the smoke in his mouth to savor the tang before blowing it out .

"I pinned your straight hair back with a plain clip, and did not defile your features with a mask of thick cosmetics." He gestured dismissively. "By dressing you such today, I'm keeping you at arm's length, my girl."

"Doctor-" she started to say, but he decided to push further, see if she'd show her play.

"You, on the other hand, want to hide in the roles. First we were Special Agent and special killer safely separated by bars and then we are hoedown hillbillies barracked together back in the woods. And now? Are we two strangers who'll fuck on their dirty weekend, then return to our lives, never to speak of it again?"

Clarice bit down hard on her lower lip, stopping herself from spitting.

"Perhaps it's best if we leave that topic for now," he said lightly.

The waitress appeared with Clarice's drink. After the young woman walked away, Lecter continued: "What were we speaking of? Ah, yes. You and those four-inch heels. You must learn to remain yourself while taking on a disguise. There's nothing to fear in these little games. Enjoy them as you will. You are strong; you will not get lost within someone like Candi."

She rocked her wide-mouthed glass back and forth, washing the sugar from the rim, but not spilling the glowing yellow liquid. "You don't ever lose yourself in the roles?"

"What do you mean?"

"You were Fell for quite a while, living the quiet academic life. Didn't kill anyone for nearly ten years. Had you found a life you preferred over Hannibal Lecter's?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Please don't tell me that two hours in a tight skirt has made you reconsider your life's path."

She shook her head. "No, that's not what I mean...do you ever wonder how your life would have been different if you'd made different choices, or hell, I guess-been born another person? Don't these roles give you that taste?"

"Like whom?" he asked carefully.

She gulped from her drink. "I dunno. You had the perfect life, and lost it all for a bit of-" She grinned savagely. "Dark meat."

"I don't look back." He shrugged. "I can't imagine being any other way. Do you ever imagine me another way?"

When she said, "No," he didn't believe her.

She added, with another mirthless smile, "Perhaps losing one tiny personality flaw."

"Thank you for allowing me to keep all my other flaws."

"You wouldn't be you without them," she conceded. "I can imagine you leading a normal life-"

She laid out her profile of another Doctor Lecter. "You'd have a lovely, yet socially appropriate wife. You'd be considerate to her needs, but probably have a mistress on the side-you'd still need some thrill of risk. Driven in your career, keeping just this side of ruthless. Doing brilliant work-helping people not out of compassion but because you enjoy the challenge."

"And what's your part in this 'normal' world? The world where you'd never met this killer?" asked Lecter. "You would have that successful career in the Bureau, living up to the promise you had coming out of Quantico. Solving important cases, saving all the shivering lambs of the world."

She lost her nerve, dropping her gaze to hide behind the mass of curls around her face. "Maybe."

"But by now, sitting behind a desk, having married and had children."

"No," she said definitely.

"You don't know that for certain," he said. "I wonder sometimes if my introduction into your life at a crucial time may have stymied your emotional growth."

She hissed, "You're beggin' for another chop, doctor," and he chuckled.

Taking another gulp from her cocktail, she shook her head. "I don't need any man and children to be complete-"

"No, you don't need them, but perhaps you would have come to want them."

Stilling fighting against what he was saying, she ground out, "You've had nothin' to do with me not settling down-"

His eyelids drifted shut, somehow angering her more.

"And there's not gonna be any children," she insisted.

His heavy lids opened slowly and his gaze was fathoms' dark as the river on a hot day. "Not now. Later, when we're safely away."

She showed the whites of her eyes.

Just as shocked as she was by what he'd said, he retreated. "Back to our normal Hannibal and Clarice. Maybe that agent would have conferred with this renowned psychiatrist on a case."

Grateful for the change of topic, she choked on her sweet drink. "Sure. I'd give money to see that meeting. That agent probably would have found that doctor an insufferable prig and he would have found her a dowdy rube."

"No," he murmured. "He would have seen beneath her dreary clothing and cool demeanor. He would have enjoyed the stimulation of her company-"

"She would remain professional, even if she found herself enjoying his company as well," she conceded. "After all, he's a married man, and she works too much to consider a complicated relationship."

"Or any relationship," he gently pointed out. "Our risk taker won't care about his other commitments. He would follow his attraction wherever it led."

"She would solve the case and go back to work without a backward glance," she said firmly.

"No, she wouldn't, Agent Starling."

Stung, she asked, "We can't escape? No matter what twist of fate, the outcome is the same? We lead to the other's destruction?"

"Or each other's salvation?" he suggested.

"Did I ever fit in at the FBI?" she said, revisiting her earlier thoughts.

"I always assumed it was your obstinate nature that kept you from conforming. But if your life counted on it-"

"Kill the flattery, Doctor. Can you see me passing as the faithful companion to the curator of a Florence museum? If you truly mean that we'll be equals in our new life, give me something, anything, to work on."

She licked the last bit of sugar from her glass's rim. "Otherwise, I've got this new ID, a couple thousand in my wallet, and a rental car with unlimited mileage. I can just start that new life all on my own, driving off into the night."

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "What other languages do you have?" he asked.

"I had four years of French in high school, taught by Miss Inga Swenson from Bemigi, so I speak it poorly with a Minnesota accent. I switched to Spanish in college when I saw I was going to pursue criminal justice. I'm fluent in street obscenities such as: drop that fucking gun or I'll blow your fucking nuts off. I can't see that helping me fit into your sort of circles."

"You would be surprised at the sorts one meets in cultured society," he said with a smile.

She tipped her glass up to get the last drop of the overly-strong cocktail. "Playing dress-up is ridiculous," she grumbled, having to feel as though she'd won at least one point from this highly-fraught encounter.

He shot a zinger right back: "Would any of your FBI colleagues recognize you now?"

Her consternation made him chuckle.

He rose. "There is a musical instruments auction tomorrow which I'd like to attend," he told her.

He nudged her chair back and numb, she stood.

"We should retire to our rooms," he commanded. "And get some rest."

"We can't be buying anything more if we're leaving," she protested as they wound through the tables.

Not heeding her words, he went on: "The auction's on-line catalogue showed several quality instruments on offer; quite surprising in this backwater. I shall have a chance to play without drawing the attention that going into a music shop would bring.

I also wish to purchase a proper saddle for you. It won't do us any good for you to break your neck at this time."

They walked out together, his hand lightly resting at the base of her spine. The other men watched over the rims of their glasses. They had not witnessed any sophisticated seduction. The man and woman had fought. There had been no intimate caresses or flirtatious smiles. Her laughter had sounded brittle. He had been remote and cold. Yet they were leaving together.

x

She struck outside their room, pinning him to the wall. Winding his tie around her tight fist, her elbow pressed into his sternum. With the pressure of the pointed bone's tip against his heart, he saw how a slight woman could kill a larger man. Her mouth descended onto his. His gasp only drew her in closer. He was finally tasting her, bitter and sweet on each stroke of her tongue, sharp and powerful as her pulse under his hands on her neck.

Her long leg slid between his, pushing him even closer to the wall. Her knowledge of men's bodies, how to damage and crush the limbs, immobilize the strength, she was using to arouse him like a deafening crescendo of percussion instruments. The warrior would be an equally fierce lover. His assumptions of her repressed sexuality were all wrong.

Now he knew what she did with her anger; she fucked it into the ground.

He wanted to be a feral boar in their woods, his snout rooting in the loam, seeking his reward of pale roots. Returning her frantic kisses, he pulled her tighter to him. He found her strong thigh under that short shirt and squeezed her tight hamstring, delighting is the returning constriction of muscle. Her skin was hot and moist as her mouth, and he realized that learning her body would be the purest sensation of his long life.

His careful control was on a knife blade edge as it had never been before and unfamiliar fear whirred like bees' rapid wings in his head. He was as wild as one of those Russian hogs, crashing out of his cage and bearing down on her slack form-

Using all his strength, he pushed her away. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth but this didn't cover her smug expression.

"Coward," she sneered, leaning on the wall for support.

The rasp of her respiration and her dilated eyes continued to excite him; she was the face of the madness he'd held at bay all his life.

He cradled her face in his hands and after a long moment, she relaxed into his wide palms, her breathing slowing.

"Yes, I am," he whispered and dared to plant a gentle kiss on the corner of her slack mouth.

Years of psychiatric training had been rendered useless with this particular individual. He did want to change her, but not the physical ways that she believed. In the process, he hasn't seen that he was changing from his endeavor. He was lost.

Her motives were a puzzlement to Lecter. Did she hope that he could be induced to murder her if she had another persona? A form of suicide acceptable to her stoic Lutheran heart? Or was she leading him into a trap so that she may guiltlessly take his life?

"What do you want, Clarice Starling?" he asked simply.

He saw total loss on her face. Not that she doesn't know, but to say it would destroy her. It was she who turned away, fumbling with her key to open her room's door. He didn't stop her.

In her room, the security latches on both doors locked, Clarice kicked off her heels, ripped off the clothes, leaving them in a tattered pile on the floor, and pinned up her curls .

The doctor had spent hours carefully weaving blonde and auburn dye through her hair until it looked reasonably realistic.

She'd taken his pleasure away by saying, "Too bad when we get back, I'll just have to dye it blonde again."

Distraught, he'd said, "Please don't. One of the things I found most lovely about you when I first saw you from my dark dungeon was the luster of your hair. I doubt you will believe this, but all I ever imagined doing was touching your hair."

She'd said, "And you did," remembering the angry squeeze she'd felt on her heart while watching the security camera footage.

He'd been so close at the shopping center...she'd almost had him...

In the end, she had relented. "Maybe I'll let it stay this way and just wear hats when I go out."

Roaming the hotel room naked, she snapped on the TV so the babble drowned out her jangling thoughts. Actors on an old 'Law and Order' episode went through the scene, questioning a psychological expert in his well-appointed office. She couldn't escape. It was easy enough to put the doctor and she on the set.

She arrives, probably still wearing a plaid blazer cut too loosely, a dull knit top, cheap shoes. He rises from behind his desk and comes around to shake her hand. No policeman rushes forward to tear them apart. His wide palm snug to hers, casually, as if there's nothing wrong.

There _is_ nothing wrong in this drama. She's a cop; he's a doctor. She opens her notebook; his eyes move over her, assessing, rejecting. But he also listens and there's a smile in his eyes, not just on his lips. She questions, he responds, he asks her things, she replies. She enjoys this conversation; it's like none she's had before. Her thoughts expand. She's the moth, not held captive by the killer in the dungeon, but flying free through a suddenly broken window.

She jumped at her blow's crack on her cheek. Rubbing the sting from her tear-wet palm, she rolled off the bed.

Digging through her clothes, she found her running outfit and quickly put it on. She dashed down the stairs, bypassing the elevator, and out through the lobby, ignoring surprised looks.

A light rain had started but the night was still warm. She ran into the inky darkness, aware that he must be watching from the windows above.

x

The next morning at the auction house, Lecter moved from one instrument to another, only striking a few keys before moving onward. Clarice trailed around the room, keeping a distance, still wary of her tumultuous emotions from the previous evening. But when he finally sat at a large concert piano, his hands remaining in his lap, she came to his side.

He started when she lightly touched his shoulder.

"Harold, is anything wrong?"

He heard the sincere concern in her tone.

"It's nothing, Candi. I'm deciding what to play."

"Keep it simple," she suggested.

He smiled. "Yes, I shall." He began to play 'Greensleeves' and after a few miss-hit keys, showed decent form. He felt her joy through her warm hand.

She moved around and leaned on the piano so he could see her smile of delight.

"I've never heard you play," she said.

"I shall play for you every day when we're settled in our new home."

"You have an instrument waiting there?"

He didn't look up from the keys, only nodded.

"Where, Doctor?" she asked through gritted teeth, her mood instantly darker.

He began a fragment from Bach, his brow low as he concentrated. His gaze on his hands, he still watched her at the corner of his eye.

Low, he said, "Clarice, you must work at relaxing. I can see your tension; surely others can as well. Places like this, with security, they're going to notice. Even if you're not doing anything illegal, a good security officer will study your face and try to place it."

She took a deep breath, but her jaw remained clenched and her face flushed.

"I don't want to have to cut up your features, my dear. My own don't matter, but I am accustomed to the arrangement of yours."

He hit a wrong key and started the movement again.

"It's hard to stop ten years of training-"

"I know," he soothed. "And we shall continue to practice before our final escape."

She stiffened at the idea of more ridiculous outings and his fingers stilled on the keys.

Defeated, she conceded: "I'll try."

He nodded again.

His voice was low and melodious, as though he were singing to her. "There's a rundown winery in Blanca Sierra, a small village in the Maipo Valley, outside Santiago, Chile. It has a large stone house, overlooking the vines, recently renovated. But there's also space for horses-an old barn to fix up. Even room for chickens."

"It's ours?" she murmured. Her whole body was relaxing on the black lacquered piano's top.

"Yes." He finished his piece with a flourish and rose.

He drew her close with his arm around her waist. "Yes, it is," he repeated, his lips on her temple as they strolled from the auction house.

They found a large tack store and checked over the saddles. Lecter leaned towards intricately tooled ones, encrusted with silver trim, while Clarice preferred something simpler. She finally overruled him, choosing a used stock saddle, broken in and worn in all the right places. She allowed Lecter to buy a few silver conchos to liven it up while she chose a braided horsehair hackamore for a bridle.

Instead of carrying the saddle out over her shoulder, Clarice allowed the salesman to load it in the back of the rental SUV. As he walked away, she didn't appear pleased.

"At least Bodie will go onto her next owner with tack," she muttered, her mouth drawn down.

"I told you; there will be other horses," Lecter reassured her.

"Yeah, fine."

She trudged round to the driver's side and he hurried to open the door for her.

He hopped into the passenger seat and asked: "Where now?"

"It's up to you," she said with a shrug, still sulking. "I've got everything I need."

She started the car engine.

"You want nothing more?"

She shook her head. "I'm a simple girl with simple needs."

"Yes, I know." He brushed her hair back from her ear before she could react. "We should go to a jewelry store and find you some appropriate pieces."

She leaned against the door and looked him down. "Oh, really."

"Small details are important. Your jewelry choices for Candi Tyler were very close to Clarice Starling," he said, eyeing her small gold studs.

"So our roles for escaping the US will be as wealthy snobs?"

He grinned. "Why not? Better than how I slunk back into this country, wedged in with a tour group and encased in a polyester track suit."

She snickered at the image. He gently removed her earring with one quick stroke. For some reason, she didn't like seeing the solitary gold ball in his palm. She resisted the urge to snatch it away.

He said, "Topaz, perhaps emeralds. Drops, to accentuate your long neck-"

Slightly breathless, she interrupted. "Don't."

He abandoned his pretext. "I simply wish to give you lovely things."

"I don't want things."

"From me?"

She put the vehicle in gear. "From anyone."

"All right," he said slowly. "We'll let that go, for now."

Pulling away from the curb, she said, "Books or food, Doctor?"

"Excuse me?"

"Surely you have more shopping to do."

"Books," he said. "And I'll find you a collection of Emily Dickinson. She's both simple and infinitely complex. Like another woman I know. And you can't refuse the gift of great literature. The rag paper and black ink are only hosting gossamer ideas for your consideration."

Clarice ignored his jibes. "I remember reading some Dickinson in high school, but I've never had the time to read poetry after that."

"We will rectify that transgression in the American educational system and your own driven life course. And Blake, I think you need to read Blake."

She got in her down dig. "Not Dante?"

"We'll start with Dickinson and Blake," he said firmly, not rising to her bait.

She pushed the curls off her face. "I'll be glad to get home and wash this shit out of my hair. Get back to normal."

He echoed her: "Normal."

She quickly glanced over at him. "Will you be stimulated enough in Chile? I mean, a winery will still be livin' on a farm."

He smiled at her. "I'll get by," he said, mimicking her drawl.

xox

Once back on their farm, Clarice was instantly relaxed. She had her chores and routine in familiar surroundings. Lecter was still focused on their leaving and continued to build the backgrounds and identities of their next personas.

"I'll purchase the plane tickets," he announced one morning after she returned from her run. "We'll fly from Knoxville to Boston as a way of entering the international flight routes without any real security checks."

"Those wild strawberries by the peach grove are going to rot if I don't pick them right now," she said, getting a large bowl out of a cabinet.

He watched her go, then headed to the computer room. He worked for the next hour, checking each detail carefully before moving to the next step. When he finally clicked for the final purchases and printed off the reservations, he felt a great relief. This had always been Clarice's place; he needed to be outside the U.S. to feel completely comfortable and capable of protecting her.

Feeling lighter in spirit, he went outside to find her.

Clarice was lounging under one of the peach trees, her hand dipping into the half-empty bowl. "Damn, you caught me," she said with no guilt.

He sat beside her and snagged a few of the overly ripe fruit.

She smiled up at him. The lush berries had stained her mouth and teeth red.

Outside the air-conditioned office, the day's heat settled in his bones, making his body heavy. He lay back, staring up into the dappled leaves above. The green peaches were beginning to blush pink.

Clarice's voice drifted to him. "Can't we stay here?"

"You know that we can't, my dear." He lolled his head over to look at her. He stroked a stray strand of hair from her cheek, winding the curl that still remained around his finger.

She captured his hand in her own. Turning over his palm, she traced the scar at his thumb. "This is my mark, so it's beautiful," she said, echoing something that he'd told her once.

His eyes drifted closed, a nap close.

"Who are we this time?" she asked, jarring him awake.

"Holly Marcil and Alex Sweet," he told her.

She snorted undignifiedly. "Where do you come get these names, Doctor?"

"You may call me what you like. You may even wish to call me Hannibal some day." He ate another berry, enjoying the burst of juice in his mouth.

She only laughed. "I'd feel silly."

Slightly stung, he lay back in the thick grass. "Fine," he said shortly.

"H," she said.

"What?"

"You signed your letter as H. Simple and short."

He glanced over but now her eyelids were heavy and nearly closed. Propping himself up on one elbow, he kissed her, red-lipped mouth to another. He kept his eyes open, ever cautious. He had decided they were like two scorpions attempting to mate, wanting passion but fearful of injury as well.

Her lazy smile broke the kiss.

"So you booked the tickets?" she said, the slightest of trembles in her words.

"Yes."

"When?" Her voice was stronger.

"September eleventh. First thing in the morning."

~end chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12:

Sighing with the relief of being home again, Clarice sauntered across the farmhouse living room, shedding her suit's blazer like a model on a runway. Lecter hung back, his head tilted slightly to take in the view.

"All right," he acknowledged. "perhaps I am enjoying this."

She glanced over her shoulder and squinted when she caught his faux innocent expression. "I wondered how you would channel your sadism without your usual outlets," she said dryly.

In a stride, he was by her side,

"I think you will find my motives are those of a very normal man," he murmured as his hand settled on her hip.

They'd spent the day in Roanoke, practicing their new personas, dining at the riverfront and listening to an open air concert in a nearby park. The doctor had leaned close, explaining the musical movements in his low voice, and his words had been flowing with the notes. They had returned to the farm with dusk covering the innocuous sight of a well-dressed couple riding in a dusty Camaro.

Clarice bent into him, one open hand resting on his chest, and her fingers twining in his silk tie. He admired the curve of her cheek as a smile crept over her face.

He cupped her thigh, drawing her closer. His fingertip nudged her chin up to lead her mouth to his. Their lips were just touching when they both heard the crunch of tires coming up the driveway.

At the window, Lecter peered around the sheer curtain. "Police," he said, instantly tense.

"If this were an arrest, they wouldn't just drive up," Clarice pointed out.

She was already tugging her blouse loose from her skirt. "I'll change. Make yourself look like Don-T and stall. I'll be back out in a minute."

Lecter watched a heavy-set uniformed officer haul himself from behind the cruiser's steering wheel. "Bring your gun," he said.

"Of course." She hurried down the hall to her room.

As knocking echoed through the small house, Lecter rapidly stripped off his suit jacket, tie, dress shirt and belt, leaving just his white undershirt and charcoal pants. He kicked off his shoes and toed out of his socks, and grabbed handfuls of his suit's slacks to wrinkle them. Yanking them down low on his hips to give himself a slovenly appearance, the doctor approached the door. There was nothing he could do about the fact that his beard and hair were still streaked with dark dye.

"Yeah?" he said, glaring at the policeman through the screen door.

"I'm Cap'n Carruthers with the Chiswell P.D.," said the uniformed man in his slow dialect. "Mind if I have a few words."

It wasn't a question and Lecter opened the door to admit their visitor.

"Sure, come on in," he said, turning away and quickly checking around the room to see if any obvious sign of their true identities was evident.

The policeman was gazing at the drawing on the wall of Clarice from her Quantico days, holding a lamb. Lecter's fist tightened as though gripping a knife. Of all his possessions, that drawing was one of the few not in a private collection. Anyone who'd studied his case would recognize it, but who knew how well-trained this backwoods cop was.

If he'd been alone, the doctor would have killed the invader right then without a thought, but he knew that Clarice was just down the hall, cradling her gun. She was ready to use it on the policeman if necessary, but she'd also stop him just as easily.

"What you want?" Lecter asked, drawing Carruthers's attention from the wall.

"You Don Lambert?"

"Yeah."

"What is it, hon?"

Clarice's voice came from the dim hall, and sounded high and worried. He wondered how much was her performance.

"This here policeman's come askin' 'bout me," he said, gesturing to Carruthers.

The captain hitched up his heavy gunbelt. "Hello, ma'am," he said comfortably.

"Hi." Clarice leaned on the doorjamb from the hall, pleating her oversized sweatshirt nervously. Lecter knew her weapon was just under the waistband; she was keeping her hand close for a quick draw.

He smiled with a snake's confidence. "Wha' can we help you with, Officer?" he asked.

"Cap'n Carruthers," their visitor corrected. "I'm makin' some routine inquires around the neighborhood."

Lecter and Clarice exchanged interested looks.

"What about?" the doctor asked.

"Lookin' at all the parolees in the area-"

Lecter took a step closer. "I'm off parole," he insisted.

Clarice had created a background for Donald Thomas Lambert in the NCIC database. A lifetime of petty crime, mostly connected to drugs, until he was paroled five years ago. According the false records that she uploaded, Lambert didn't need to be checking in with the local parole board.

Carruthers wasn't intimidated by Lecter's pronouncement. He peered at the tense couple from under his bushy eyebrows. "Just checkin' in."

"I don't have to answer any questions," grumbled Lecter, hunching his shoulders.

Clarice's fingers were like steel on his arm. "Don-" she whined.

"There's been a report of a child in this area bein' molested," Carruthers started to say but Lecter exploded before he could get any further.

"You think I'm a chomo!?" Lecter got in the policeman's face. "I beat the shit out of those little fuckers any chance I get." He poked Carruthers in the chest with his broad finger. "You see a single sex crime on my record?"

"No, sir," said Carruthers, stepping back carefully. "But I gotta check everyone."

"Is some kid saying that Don messed with her?" asked Clarice, her gaze watchful.

"I can't say one way or another. We have a report and I've got to follow up with any man in the area that has had trouble with the law."

"You need to keep lookin'," said Lecter. "Stop pokin' in our business."

The police captain only smiled at them. "Sure." He moved toward the door. "I'll be goin' then."

Lecter and Clarice waited until they heard his patrol car's motor fade away before even speaking.

"Son of a bitch," hissed Clarice, beginning to pace. "We gotta get out of here."

"We can't run now," Lecter pointed out. "He'll be on us."

"Yes, yes-" She continued to turn in small circles.

The doctor grabbed her arm, yanking her to him. "You called it in," he said accusingly.

Her hand rested on her weapon at her waist and he knew she'd gut shoot him before he could grab her wrist.

"I told you that I wouldn't, and I didn't," she growled.

He hissed; a vile sound.

"I didn't," she repeated, wrenching free from his grip.

"Someone did."

She swung around to face him. "You don't trust me," she stated flatly.

"We're even then," he said. "You don't trust me either. I saw that look; you were wondering if I had abused that disgusting child."

She stared back at him. She'd had to watch child pornagraphy, hideous images of grown men engaged in sexual activities with children. And now she'd been the focus of this man's sexual interest. She knew that he was not capable of those hideous acts; they would fulfill none of his needs. He welcomed her attempts at domination and reveled in her physical power. The last thing he wanted was some crying little girl as a passive orifice.

She turned away. But there was something that he was keeping her... "You don't trust me," she repeated, defeated.

He flung his hands in the air. "Only with my life," he said.

"Let's just focus on getting out of here," she said, always pragmatic.

"Clarice-"

She was already walking away. "There's improvements that we can make to the security system. And build in some escape routes in case we're trapped in this house."

When he said, "I won't be taken alive this time," she stopped and looked back at him.

"Don't get dramatic," she said witheringly. "It's not going to come to that."

He let her begin her planning without another comment. After fetching her toolbox, she ducked down into the basement. He knew she would never admit defeat and he normally shared that trait. But he was no longer working alone and could not abandon her to save his own skin. And a hostage to fortune was a heavy burden.

He was sitting at the kitchen table when she popped back up from the floorboard entry, sweaty and grime-covered.

"Come to church with me this time," he said to her. "I think we need to cut off any more problems before they arise."

She hoisted herself back up into the hall. "And I think we need to lay low. It's the end of August. Only two more weeks before the eleventh. I know how long these investigations take. We'll be long gone before the police come by again."

"But they'll be watching us."

"Chiswell has that captain, two sergeants and four patrol officers, total. They also have a bad meth and Oxy dealing problem. They are not going to be doing some stakeout at the end of the road." She moved to the sink and washed her hands vigorously. "He was just fishing. He's hoping that I know something and will flip on my man."

"He doesn't' know you very well, does he," Lecter said, finally finding his sense of humor again.

Clarice could laugh too. "No, he does not."

x

She did join him at Christ's Fire Holy Church the next Sunday, and they took a pew at the back. He nodded slightly toward the choir, pointing out Michelley Kreet to Clarice.

The girl's pale moonface was perspiring and she kept shifting her songbook in front of her, but it could not disguise that her pudgy figure was taking on a tell-tale rounding at the middle.

Clarice's features twisted in disgust.

"Her school must have reported it," Lecter noted dispassionately. "No one in her family would have."

Clarice looked at Ava Kreet's strong profile in a front pew and had to agree with his assessment. These people would keep their shames close, no matter what the cost.

Lecter was watching the Brockers, sitting across the aisle and one row ahead of them. Iris kept her gaze in her lap. Her chapped lips were moving rapidly in prayer, seeming to ignore the day's sermon. Her usually pink cheeks were green-tinged. Sam focused on the tiny preacher bobbing and weaving behind the lectern as he ranted, as though engaged in battle with some unseen demon.

The doctor considered killing them tonight, and if he could reasonably set the scene as a murder-suicide to fool the local authorities. It would tie up several loose ends before they left, and perhaps keep the police from their door. And he liked to think it would be a gift for Clarice.

x

But there was no opportunity to follow through with his plans. Clarice never strayed for his side, always keeping him in sight. Even at night, if he were to stir, he'd spot her silhouette in the dark of the sleeping porch, standing as if on watch. He'd smoke a cigar and return to bed.

The days passed without another visit from Captain Carruthers, but Clarice still continued to fortify the property, even as the time remaining on the farm dwindled down until their day of leaving was the next one.

Clarice picked the last of the sweet corn for dinner. Lecter killed and plucked a chicken. A remaining ripe peaches were made into a tart.

As their final supper cooked, Clarice slipped out of the house, finally leaving Lecter unattended. He watched her from the porch as she sought her horse in the pasture. With the dusk sinking over the farm, the two bright heads came together in the gloom. Her pale hand stroked the mare's nose and fed carrots to the nibbling mouth.

He joined Clarice, and Boudica shied away at his footfall, but returning for more treats when she caught his familiar scent.

"We'll have another garden. You will have another horse," Lecter said, finally impatient with her glum manner.

Clarice didn't turn to face him and her head remained bowed as she patted the horse's silken neck. "Maybe you're used to starting over again and again, but I've finally felt like I had a home for the first time in...a really long time."

"Perhaps this home isn't just the place, or what's in it, but who's here," he suggested.

Her chuckle was rough and she cleared her throat. "I've just gotten used to this you and this me."

"I'll always be me, regardless of the name," he reminded her.

Without looking at him, she found his clenched hand gripping the fence rail and squeezed it. Finally she muttered, "Paul said that I needed more fun out of my life. Out of all the awful things he said to me, that was the only one that hurt."

For a moment, Lecter could smell Paul's skull burning as he cut through it with the electric blade, and he smiled.

"I didn't expect to have fun. Just saw holding you as something I had to do," she confessed. "But it has been fun, Doctor."

His lips grazed her temple but she still didn't turn to him.

"Dinner should be ready," he said, stepping away. "Come along, my dear, before it get cold."

He started back to the house and finally heard her dragging steps behind him.

That night, Lecter slept well, if only for a few hours. But Clarice was already dressed in her role as successful businesswoman Holly Marcel, so out of place in the farmhouse living room, when he came out of his bedroom.

"Never could sleep before a trip," she said before he could ask why she was up so early-or if she had slept at all.

"There will be little travel after this," he said before ducking into the bathroom for one last shower in the awful facility.

When he came out, Clarice was in her bedroom, looking in her closet one last time. All the worn cargo pants and faded tee shirts would remain behind.

"Do you want to see the horse again?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I went out before I dressed. Can't be walking to the barn in these shoes," she said with a sneer.

He was sure she'd also gone out earlier so that he wouldn't see her weep.

"She'll be fine. Bud will assure that she has a good home," he said.

As when they went on their day trips, one of the doctor's acquaintances from the Saturday morning auctions would care for the animals. Bud thought they would only be gone for three days. Once they were safely away, Lecter would call and tell him to sell off the animals and keep the money as his reward.

Carrying their few pieces of luggage out to the porch, they took one last look around the misty farm. Clarice shut the front door and carefully set the trigger hidden within the doorbell. The doors and windows were wired. If the house was entered, Incendiary devices set in the basement would go off, setting the structure on fire. Clarice knew that it wouldn't destroy all the evidence that they may have left behind, but they couldn't risk losing their refuge until they were definitely out of the country. Lecter didn't believe in retreat, but she always liked to have a backup plan.

She'd washed the Camaro to make it as presentable as possible. Their bags in the trunk, she drove slowly and as quietly as the powerful motor would go.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Lecter's fingers impatiently danced on his thigh. Ignoring him, she pulled out onto the county highway, but didn't turn her lights on even as she accelerated to the speed limit.

"I got moonshiners in my background," she told him, keeping her gaze on the road.

"Naturally." He exhaled as the car picked up speed. They were finally on their way, free from the backwoods.

She'd wanted to leave the day before, thinking the airport security agents would be overwhelmed by the Monday morning business traffic. But Lecter has held out for the Tuesday. He enjoyed the synergy of the date, 9-11-01.

End ~ Chapter 12


	13. Chapter 13

_To touch again on the story warnings: Strong, violent imagery and language follows._

Chapter 13:

Small black birds plunged toward the earth, twisting on broken wings through clouds of tattered paper. The image jerked to one just as incomprehensible; a passenger plane coming in for a landing on the side of a grand, shining tower. The screams rose again, as they had for hours.

"Why must you watch this?" asked Lecter, glancing up from the computer where he worked. "When it's obviously upsetting you."

Hunched before the television, Clarice didn't look at him. "You don't care, do you," she stated flatly.

He cupped her shoulder with his wide palm. "No, my dear, not in the least."

She only shook her head and gnawed on her lower lip, her gaze still riveted to the flickering screen.

"I only care about you." He stroked her hair lightly. The curls for Holly Marcil had gone limp after the last exhausting twenty-four hours.

When she didn't respond, he could only laugh humorlessly. "Truly, you don't see the gravity of my confession."

"Our feelings don't matter-"

"Not knowing the specifics of this act," he said, waving his hand at the television, "I can say that these things are usually carried about those who care more about a cause than they do for their mother, their children..." He gazed on her. "Their lover."

He stood, stretching. "Never discount the power of one person's feelings."

She changed the channel to the Pentagon burning. "I should be there," she said as though he hadn't spoken. "Instead, I'm here with you-"

"So you want to be standing at the impact site, hopefully burning alive?" he said, finally impatient with her.

"It's what I've trained for all my life. The duty for which I made a vow. And now the irony, I'm protecting a murderer-"

"Please do not equate me with these individuals."

Her blank expression became stubborn. She finally faced him, the TV blaring on unheeded.

"We can't think about our petty feelings. Sometimes there are causes worth standing up for, and even dying for. You're so selfish-"

"And your selfishness is the reason I'm not on death row," he pointed out.

"Don't I know that." She dropped her head and clenched her hands in her lap.

Her gaze shifted back to the TV. Emergency responders were running down New York streets in a fog of ash toward certain death.

"Yes, that's my place," she said with finality.

"To die needlessly?" He raised a hand in protest. "Like your father was snuffed for a few dollars?"

She hopped up, furious. "And now you equate his death with an attack on our nation?"

"At least you'll finally admit that Saint Daddy died for nothing," he growled. "Absolutely nothing, other than the loss of your soul."

"It was worth it!" She was in his face, spitting fire. "I gladly give it. Even if he died for the wrong reason, he was living his life the right way..." She turned around, her muscles twitching like a cat's nervous hide. "And who am I now? Sheltering a murderer. Planning my flight from justice, to live in luxury on a drug cartel's earnings."

She went to the doorway, grabbing the jamb as though it was the only thing holding her. "I have a soul, Doctor. It's just corrupt and black."

He expelled a long breath. "You are naturally overwrought and upset. But we must remain focused," he lectured.

He continued: "I shall start the water pump again and call Bud, tell him that in light of events, we came home early. Then we shall assess the situation and determine another route of escape."

She remained with her back to Lecter as he reached for the phone. When he looked up again from dialing, she was gone, her rapid steps echoing on the planks floors and then the slam of her bedroom door.

They had made it as far as Boston's Logan Airport, even boarding their flight to Atlanta. The takeoff time had ticked by.

Seated in the deep cushions of first class as businesswoman Holly Marcil, Clarice watched the stewardesses nervously whispering and their tense glances repeatedly going down the aisle to the passengers.

They weren't specifically looking at her or Lecter, seated across the aisle as Alex Sweet, salesman on his way to a convention. She couldn't look his way either. The others in seats around her seemed just as on edge, murmuring into their cellphones endlessly.

Finally the PA crackled. "There will be a delay of the flight. Please exit through the front entrance."

Would the FBI be waiting at the end of the jetway? She'd pulled down her briefcase and purse from the overhead bin nonetheless; there was no other way out, no gun for one last shootout. She would go like a sheep down the slaughterhouse chute. But the doctor was in step right behind her, his breath close enough to stir her hair.

No one waited in the terminal. Only swarming crowds, their buzz loud and agitated. Everyone gathered around a small TV in the gate waiting area, showing the collapse of a tall office tower. With a start, Clarice realized that it was one of the World Trade Center.

Lecter was at the airline counter, shoving his way ahead of the others. She moved closer to the television. Four flights hijacked; that's why they were diverted. Two had taken off from Logan-it would be swarming with authorities soon.

Her head snapped around. It already was; state police and National Guard troops were moving between the gate areas, their sharp gazes sweeping over passengers and their bags.

The doctor was at her shoulder, watching the TV as well. "We won't be leaving any time soon," he murmured out of the corner of his mouth, not looking at her.

"No," she agreed. "This is big. Too big."

"We must leave the airport," he said, his voice still low but intense.

"We've got to get our bags," she said. All their cash was hidden in their expensive luggage.

"Yes."

Lecter walked away from her, strolling toward the baggage claim.

She forced herself to wait a few minutes, watching more footage on the television and listening to the distressed chatter of the others around her before following his path.

Once she'd secured her bags on a cart, she wheeled it so that she could stand back to back with him. She opened her cell phone, but didn't make a call. She spoke into it. "Should we rent a car?"

Lecter had had time to listen to more of the news by then. He lifted his phone to his ear as well. "The authorities will be checking footage and backgrounds of everyone who came and went from this airport today. We can't risk it, even under these identities."

"Yes," she had agreed, chewing the lipstick from her lower lip.

"Wait out front," he said. "I'll get us a car."

He pushed his cart through the exit and left it at the curb without a backward look as she pulled hers up close. Minutes ticked by. She shifted on her high heels.

Finally a nondescript blue compact parked in front of her. The trunk popped open. She quickly loaded the bags from the two carts without asking any questions.

Settling into the passenger seat, she released a breath of relief as Lecter accelerated away. Turning on the radio, she searched for any updates. The station she chose continued the litany of unbelievable reports; another World Trade Center tower had been struck. The first had collapsed. The Pentagon hit by another plane. The fourth was down in a field, apparently not getting to its target.

"Fuck," Clarice breathed, clutching at her seat belt strap.

Patrol cars, sirens blaring, poured into the airport as Lecter drove through the streets and found the highway onramp.

She didn't ask him where they were going. Away was all that mattered. Looking around the small car, she asked, "You jacked this?"

"Yes." He was watching the rear view mirror.

"Won't that set off an APB?" she suggested.

"Long term parking. Who knows, maybe the owner is a passenger not coming back," he said grimly.

She settled back in her seat, listening to the reports and staring at the passing traffic with unseeing eyes. Fighter jets screamed overhead, the sound sawing away on her tight nerves.

After several stops at state police checkpoints, and having the innocuousness of their clothing and their transportation looked over as well as their fake identifications checked carefully, they realized that they'd need to do more than drive in circles around the city.

"We won't be able to get across either international border," Lecter pointed out as he drove away from another stop. "They must be closed."

Clarice pushed her elaborate hairdo back impatiently. "It sounds as though all flights are going to be grounded for at least a day, if not longer. With four flights hijacked, they're not going to let anything in the air until all the holes are plugged."

"Where to, my dear?" he'd asked, his hands light on the wheel.

"Home, I guess."

"Home?"

"Back to the farm. At least until we can get a better sense of the situation."

At first, he'd wanted to protest. He'd felt that they'd made a close escape that morning. He had an excellent sense of impending capture; it had rarely failed him but when it had, the cost had been high.

Perhaps the local authorities would be occupied with fruitless exercises and rooting out terrorist threats in their midst, and would temporarily forget about the mysterious Don T Lambert and his wife, and who may be molesting underage girls.

He had exited off Interstate 95 to choose less well-traveled routes. "Let's get some food," he said. "There's no hurry at this point."

Driving all day and night, and after spending a few hours sleeping fitfully at a rest stop, they had finally arrived at the farm mid-morning on the twelfth. Bud had obviously come and fed the animals, so all there had been to do was settle in for a tense wait until they could attempt flight from the United States again.

When Lecter popped out the basement, having secured their cash again and starting the water system, he found Clarice was gone from the house.

He knew that Clarice was not a patient person. She needed to be in motion at all times. He decided to let her run, and as he heard the clatter of hooves on their driveway, saw that she was doing just that. Further investigation found her lovely fawn business suit lying in a crumpled pile on her bedroom floor. Tsking under his breath, he hung the outfit up and lined up the high heels in the closet.

Returning to the computer room, he checked the security monitors. There'd been a prickling sense at the back of his neck since he'd parked the stolen car in the peach orchards out of view from any passing traffic. That reminded him; he'd have to get rid of the vehicle soon. Too many dangling ends were exposed for someone paying attention to such details.

For the first time while living at the farm, he secured a Glock from the gun case, tucked it in his waistband and began to roam the house. Hours ticked by. He wanted Clarice to return from her ride. He paced the living room, his gaze going to his drawing of her with the sharp-toothed lamb repeatedly. Her level eyes looked back but gave him no peace as they had in the past.

As if responding to his premonition, the perimeter's alarm went off. He hurried to the computer room and checked the security monitors. Clarice's horse was now in the far paddock. She'd returned, but not to the house. The mare's head was up, long strands of grass hanging from her mouth and her ears were pricked forward; she sensed danger too.

Movement on another monitor caught his eye. Something was struggling through the tall weeds near the woods. He bound from the house in pursuit.

Dusk was falling over the farm as he ran through the fallow fields, sending up a cloud of gray doves to the darkening sky. He didn't worry about an element of surprise. It wasn't a hunter he was tracking but a wounded prey.

As he approached, soft, white skin flashed like a lure to him...Painfully writhing limbs in the tangled weeds...The smell of blood...A low gasp-

He was on her, wrenching the body over.

Not _her_...Of course, not _her_. Nothing could kill his girl.

He forced his breathing to slow. Michelley Kreet's blank eyes stared up at him from under a cracked and bleeding skull. One of her pale pupils was blown. Her torso swam in blood. He pushed up her blouse and discovered multiple stab wounds to her lower abdomen. Someone was assuring they killed her baby as well as the girl.

Then he caught the slightest flutter of a pulse at her throat. But she was obviously in an advanced state of shock. Death was close. If he called for aid, the EMT's may be able to stabilize her but she would still be left severely impaired. And they would be exposed.

He would be merciful, though. With his hands at her throat, he took her life quickly and efficiently.

Rising, he looked around. Still no sign of Clarice. She wasn't going to work out her frustration on her beloved horse, but she must be running or taking a walk in her woods. No, he couldn't dispose of the body there. It would take too much time to dig a grave and cover it against scavengers.

Briskly, he went to the shed and retrieved the pickup and a length of heavy chain. Loading Michelley's corpse in the back, he tugged a tarp over to cover it.

He drove down the dirt track that ran along the river. The last light was gone and only a quarter of a moon was out. He had to risk his headlights. Old refrigerators, tires, and Lazy-Boys were strewn along the path and dumped in the water. He would simply add to the collection of unwanted trash.

Choosing a spot where the waters swirled dangerously, he backed the truck onto a stone ledge at the river's edge. He wouldn't allow Clarice to swim here because of the dangerous currents and fetid brown outwash from a creek coming down from the Kreets' nearby farm. He decided that it would be as though Michelley were being buried on family land when she sank into the deep layer of shit on the river bottom.

After rolling her body out of the truck bed, he retrieved the chain. Like Buffalo Bill, he'd weigh the body down so that it wouldn't be discovered any time soon. Still, he and Clarice had to leave tonight. Even if he had to tie her up and toss her in the back of this vehicle, they would be away from this place, now-

"Freeze," barked a harsh voice from under the dark trees.

In the gloom, he caught the glint of a weapon pointed at his chest.

"Clarice."

"Get away from the body."

He straightened and carefully stepped to the side.

Clarice eased close and felt for any signs of life in the crumpled body of Michelly Kreet quickly, her gun never lowering. In the shadow-filled light, Lecter hand crept to where he had the gun at his waist.

For the first time, he surprised her, his weapon's muzzle pointed at her head.

"Listen-" he demanded.

"I believed you," she hissed.

"You can trust me-"

"You've killed this child," she yelled, suddenly loud and sharp. "You used me, used my trust-"

"I didn't do this-"

"Did you kill this girl!?" she spit out, demanding his honesty.

He hesitated, then repeated, "You can trust me. I'm doing this for us-"

She strode closer, her weapon still level with his chest. "You wanted me to be the one to kill you, to eat your heart. You're about to get your wish."

"Clarice..." He lowered his gun and let it drop to the ground with a soft thud. Opening his arms wide, he exposed his chest to her.

Their gazes remained locked over the now forgotten corpse, aware of nothing but each other. Her jaw worked, whether fighting back tears or curses or both.

Gunfire thundered in the darkness. Lecter's head and chest bloomed vivid red. The impact knocked him off the rock ledge and into the dark water. He disappeared beneath the surface with only the slightest ripple.

Clarice spun, barely having time to brace for impact before she was knocked down by a heavy weight. A man, all massive belly and rancid breath cursing her-

"Stupid bitch...Gonna cut out your cunt and feed it to you-"

She registered it was Sam Brocker, his prissy high voice speaking disgusting threats.

Trapped flat on her back, she managed to get off a shot but this only gained her a cuff to the cheek with his handgun's barrel, slamming her skull to the rock below. Her vision swam and her grip went slack. He slapped her weapon away to fall into the water with a sickening plop.

He rocked back on his heels, but his weight still held her down. In the slim moonlight, she caught the flash of his gun as he pointed it at her head.

His other hand fumbled with his fly.

"I'm gonna feed you up. Quiet that bitch mouth-"

Her long-held wish had come true. It was finally back- -fear. Horrible, weakening fear coiling from her heart, making her limbs weak. It flowed like the blood had washed down Lecter's body in that brief, bright gunflash before he disappeared in the water.

The fear was not for herself but him. The doctor was lost. He was gone. It was her fault; she'd taken his heart and burned it to dust, just as he'd foretold.

She could not think or see anything else just when she needed her nerves strong and her mind clear. As Brocker cracked her temple with the gun again and shifted further up her body, drawing nearer to her head, she realized that life was an ironic bitch sometimes.

~End Chapter 13


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14:

The sun was low on the horizon, gilding the vineyard's spring-green leaves. Lecter trailed after Clarice as she approached the winery's reservoir, a dammed creek pooled above the rows of vines. Her high-heeled sandals swung from her hand by the straps. She pushed back her curls to look across the calm water.

"I gotta take a dip and wash this crud out of my hair," she announced, dropping the shoes.

"My dear, it's not warm enough," he cautioned, but she was tugging her blouse free of her skirt.

They'd had a long, tiring day of travel from the United States, but Clarice had wanted to tour their new property immediately.

"I'm tough," she announced.

She shed her top with a wiggle of her strong shoulders. Unzipping her skirt, she stepped out of it, leaving her in nothing but a white bra and panties.

Shading his eyes, the doctor looked around from their vantage on the crest. "I never would have taken you for a exhibitionist," he said, despite the fact that they were utterly alone.

She unsnapped her bra's clasp. When she said, "I've got all sorts of things that you don't know about me," her tone wasn't the least bit provocative, yet he still caught his breath.

After pulling off her panties, she dove into the water with a swimmer's clean motion before his gaze could linger too long. Her pale body rolled under the surface, light in the dark, as nebulous as a silvery sleek fish.

When she finally popped up, she ran her fingers through her hair, tugging the curls straight. "That's better," she said with delight.

Lecter sank to the grass at the water's edge. He was suddenly tired. Perhaps the past few months had been more tiring than he had admitted. He had organized their new lives with all his usual precautions and safeguards, but the stakes were so much higher than any other time he had shifted identities. He could relax; they were free at last.

As though acting out his thoughts, Clarice frolicked in the green water, diving and surfacing again and again.

He pulled his tie off and toed out of his own shoes. "Girl, get out of that water," he scolded. Shedding his jacket, he held it out. "You'll catch a cold on the first day."

Peering at him with just the top of her head exposed from the dark water, her eyes flared like quicksilver. Paddling closer, she suggested, "No, you come in."

He only shook his head, smiling. Lying back on the grass, he watched clouds drift above, glowing orange and purple as the sun sank lower. He peeked at Clarice to see what she was doing.

She appeared to have made a decision. Rising to stand, she strode out of the pond, the water coursing down her pale limbs.

Now he was weak with something more than exhaustion as she came to loom over him.

"My coat," he offered again.

She reached out, but to brush the garment from his slack fingers and grasp his hand. He pulled her down gently. Curling beside him, instantly drenching his clothes, she settled her head on his shoulder, as if a small bird landing in his palm.

"My darling," he murmured at her brow, knowing this was a time when words would be useless.

"Are we really home?" she whispered.

"Yes. All this is yours."

Her open hand pressed over his heart. "All this," she repeated.

He tipped her chin up, looking for fear or resistance in her eyes. Her gaze shimmered like the sun on the water. Her eyelids drifted shut as their lips grazed. He finally felt that he could close his own as well. She was right; the depths weren't cold.

The swan glided across the surface toward the shore where she waited, reclined and expectant. He surged onto shore, finding his harbor in her open thighs. His wide wingspan shielded them from the sinking sun, two creatures turning and twisting among the high weeds.

He found a river pebble with his fingertips, firm and smooth. He took a little boy's delight in his discovery, turning it in his touch.

His lips slid on her skin, a skipping stone over the surface, creating the lightest of ripples. She gasped in desire and discontent. Yes, she wanted harshness, but he would show her what true agony was...Only the tip of his tongue caught her rapidly rising nipples, savoring the fleeting taste.

"H," she demanded, drawing out the one letter with as many syllables as his full name.

His laugh was sadistic as ever for one sole reason; he was going to make Clarice Starling break as she never had before. But instead, she lay back in the tangled grass, wrapped her strong legs around his ribs and consumed him; submission was domination for them.

The current was pulling him under despite his intentions to stay close to shore as long as possible. She caught a wave and rose above him, blocking out the glowing horizon. In darkness, her smile was bright and cruel, a sliver of white high above. Her hands went to his throat. The pressure crushed his chest, pressing the air from his lungs.

"Just let go," she told him. "Let go."

No, he must fight. He would not give in. He thrashed and bucked, battling the strong tide. The water was dark and cold, pulling him deeper...Above him, a point of light wavered, growing stronger as he struggled against the undertow.

Her arms tugged at him, trying to keep him from escaping. He struck out in fury and pain.

A fist in the darkness struck her jaw with a ringing blow. Clarice found her breath, clearing her swirling head. The stink coming off of Brocker's genitals told her that the offensive body parts were close to her face. One arm had some movement, even with his grotesque weight bearing down on her. She'd only have one chance-

"I gonna fuck your corpse," Sam growled and his gun cocked.

Coiling her fist, she struck, burying her knuckles in his scrotum. His yowl of pain echoed down the riverbank and the heavy pressure on her chest finally lightened.

His gun; she had to get his gun-

The night exploded in brightness and her ears thundered with a gunshot. Utter blackness covered her as Sam toppled over. She grappled free and rolled on her stomach to get her bearings.

Doctor Lecter clung to the rock ledge with one hand, his pistol in the other. His face was half-covered in freshly flowing blood, but the one visible pale eye pierced her heart.

"Took you long enough," she gasped.

He barked a short laugh. "I love you, Clarice Starling."

She scrambled to her feet, nearly losing consciousness as her blood pressure pounded against her head injuries. But she had to help him-

Grabbing Lecter's hand so that he didn't slip beneath the surface again, she realized that she didn't have the strength to help him out.

"I'm sorry," she kept repeating as they worked together, her tugging and he scrambling, until he was on the bank, water and blood pouring off him.

With Clarice half-carrying and supporting him, they shuffled together to the pickup. Dropping the tailgate, she lowered Lecter to sit.

"How bad is it?" she asked, wiping the blood from his face.

He raised a shaking hand to his temple. "I don't think the bullet entered my brain," he said dispassionately.

Remembering the horror of Paul's ability to converse even with his skull open, she hurried to the truck cab and fetched a flashlight. Digging under the seat, she found a fairly clean wadded up work shirt.

Blotting his forehead with the shirt, she exposed the wound from the mud and blood. It was a deep groove cleaving the skin, and although she was could see the white of bone, she didn't believe it was deep enough to have opened his skull or pierced his brain.

She told him this. "Excellent," he said, taking a weak breath.

This brought on a spate of coughing, flushing out brackish water. When he stopped spitting, he added, "No blood. I don't think the other shot has entered my lung or other organs."

"There's another shot?" Before he could reply, she was pulling off his shirt. On his pale skin, an angry bruise was already forming with a sinister small entry wound between two of his ribs. Pointing the flashlight, she checked his back for an exit.

"Good, it came out," she said. Pressing lightly, she added, "I think you're right. May have nicked a rib and has torn up the muscle and cartilage, but didn't ricochet into your abdomen."

She sagged in relief. Despite blood loss and near drowning, the doctor wasn't seriously injured. It was a momentary reprieve.

"I'm much more concerned about the fetid waters that I've been bathing in. Fecal matter, for certain," he pointed out.

"Shit," she muttered.

"Exactly," he said and laughed painfully at his own joke.

As soon as she said, "We've got to get you to the hospital," he vehemently protested: "No."

"Hannibal-" she demanded, but he just shook his head.

"No," he repeated. "It's my choice. I won't have us go out like this."

"We're Don Lambert and his wife. It won't necessarily lead to an arrest-"

"Perhaps if it was just one shot, I could claim that I was cleaning my gun when it accidentally went off, but how are we to explain the second?" he pointed out. "The police will be contacted in any case."

She leaned against the truck and supported her own pounding head on her hand. "Okay," she finally said. "We'll get you home and try to clean these wounds."

"Yes," he said, relaxing.

"I gotta do something about these bodies," she said, looking hopelessly from Michelley to Sam.

"Unfortunately, I'm afraid that I cannot assist you," Lecter said, his tone apologetic, courtly as ever.

She nodded, wincing at the pain. "Let me try to stop your bleeding first. If we're not going to the hospital, you can't lose any more blood than you have already."

Dragging the tarp forward in the truck bed, she quickly cut lengths from the cleaner parts of it. After wiping his head as clean as she could, she wrapped a strip around his skull snugly. Satisfied with that bandage, she bound his ribs over the second gunshot wound.

He was beginning to shake.

"Let's get you in the cab and the heat on," she said, offering him her shoulder to lean on.

Despite clenching his jaw in aggravation, Lecter nonetheless accepted her assistance. Once she had him settled and the engine started, she turned her attention to the two bodies lying in the mud.

Michelley was young, but still weighed one hundred and forty pounds of dead weight. It took all of Clarice's flagging strength to roll the body to the truck, prop it up by the tailgate, and push and shove it into the bed. After pulling the remnants of the tarp over the girl's blank face and puffy body, she turned her attention to Sam Brocker next. There's no way she could heave the three hundred plus pound weight into the truck.

Finding a length of rusted pipe in the weeds, she used it to roll the mass to the river's edge. Retrieving the chain that Lecter had brought, she wrapped it as best as she could around his middle, fastening the ends with some plastic ties from the truck. She doubted it would hold for long, but she needed to buy all the time that she could.

Digging deep in her strength reserve, she tipped the body into the coursing current, hoping she'd found a deep spot as it sank beneath the surface. Making her way back to the truck, she shook her head at the sight of their many footprints, the tire tracks, shell casings and blood stains. It was an investigator's dream crime scene. But she had neither the time or energy to cover up. She would just have to hope they had bought enough time for Lecter to recover and they could flee.

Crawling into the cab behind the wheel, she took a moment to catch her breath.

"Clarice," said the doctor, stroking her cheek with a shaking and filthy hand.

"We've got to get you home," she said, desperate and near hysteria.

As carefully as possible, she turned the truck around on the narrow dirt track. Her vision blurring, she drove slowly back to the farm, despite the voice screaming in her head to hurry.

"You can do it, my dear," drifted out the darkness of the truck cab and she had to smile.

Finally, she pulled up to the back porch. Hurrying around to the passenger door, she helped Lecter out and up the stairs. They staggered together to the bathroom. He was shaking with cold again when she lowered him to the toilet. Turning the shower, she yanked off his boots and pants before stripping herself.

"Come on, let's get as much of this mud off as we can," she urged him.

Lifting his heavy head, Lecter managed to nod in agreement. "Yes," he said slowly and pushed himself upright with as much dignity as he could muster.

She helped him into the shaky tub and under the spray. Lathering up her hands, she spread suds on every inch she should reach of his body.

"I must say, my dear, when I envisioned this scenario, it was not quite like this," he said dryly as he leaned on the wall.

She gave a rusty bark. "Surely there was this much blood."

His gaze was grave and he traced a strand of wet hair from her face. "No. Not a drop."

Wincing for his anticipated pain, she removed the tarp bandages and bit her lip at the sight of the ugly, dirty injuries.

"You can clean them up with surgical scrub I have in my medical kit. There's some antibiotic ointment as well," he told her.

"This isn't a scratch from a nail, H. I really think we need to get real medical assistance. "

"I will be fine," he said stubbornly. "I heal very well."

Biting back any more argument, she left the comfort of the shower to fetch the medical kit.

Pouring Betadine solution on a washcloth, she relentlessly scrubbed the wounds until blood flowed freely again, the swarming odor mingling with the sharpness of iodine.

Bending down, she peered at the gunshot to his side. "Can I flush this with a syringe?"

"That will help," the doctor said, but they both knew these crude attempts would probably do little to stem infection.

He touched her bruised face lightly with trembling fingers. "I think he may have broken your cheekbone." He moved to her temple. "Cracked your skull." Even in his weakened condition, his fury was evident.

"I'm okay," she said, just as stubborn as he was. "I've had worse."

Turning off the cooling water, she helped him out of the shower and began vigorously rubbing his body dry to keep him warm, stemming the bleeding as best she could before binding the wounds with sterile cotton bandages.

"I could grab a doctor, bring him here-" she mused.

"Compounding your crimes?" he said with a rueful smile.

"I don't give a damn-"

"And exposing us even more," he said firmly. "No, I'll rest for a day or two, then we'll be on our way."

"A day-"

He repeated: "I shall be fine-"

"Fine?" She led him to his bedroom and tugged on a fresh pair of boxers for him. After covering her own nudity with one of his teeshirts, she helped him under the blankets.

She wouldn't relent. "I know you're strong...But..."

He wasn't listening. Lying back on his pillows, he traced the contusions on her temple and cheekbone again. "You probably have a concussion-"

"I won't be sleeping anyway," she said.

He tried to appeal to her sense of duty. "Clarice, it won't do us any good for you to become incapacitated."

"I've got to get rid of Michelley's body and move that car we stole in Boston," she said, still obstinate.

Ignoring his protests, she fed him water and an anti-inflammatory medication, gritting her teeth at the futility of these medical treatments. Quickly putting on fresh jeans and a sweater, she returned to the truck.

Dawn was beginning to lighten the sky, adding urgency to her tasks. Driving straight into the barn, she rolled the body into a wheelbarrow and moved it to the back of the dim structure. Finding a depression in the dirt, she dumped the the girl's remains in. Bringing over a bag of lime, she spread it over Michelley and then shoveled soil atop. This would have to do for now. She made sure the hogs' gates were secure before leaving the barn, not trusting them with the body.

In the peach grove, she started the little blue car, but only drove it as far as the abandoned farm next door. Pushing through the curtain of kudzu vines, she hid the car from passing traffic.

She knew that none of these measures were enough to hide their presence for more than a few days. Raising her chin against the tide of fear washing over her again, she curses the long gone emotion. This was not the time for its return.

Exhausted by the time she walked down their drive, she could do no more than give a cursory glance around the farm to see if any obvious evidence of the night's activities was present before dragging herself up the porch steps.

At her footfall in the house, Lecter called out: "Clarice, my dear-"

She rushed to his room. "Are you all right?" she asked, hanging onto the jamb for support.

"Yes, yes," he said from the bed. Wane and weak, he still managed to chide her. "Drink some water yourself and come to bed." He patted the mattress beside him. "At least take some Ibuprofen for your head."

Bringing a pitcher and another glass from the kitchen, she finally conceded to his demands by crawling into the bed. The pillow felt so blissful comfortable as she lowered her head.

She fell to sleep as though slipping beneath the river's surface to join Sam's body. The last thing she was aware of was Lecter's warm palm cupping her face and his murmurs of endearment.

x

It felt as though only a minute had passed when a pounding on the front door woke her. Lecter was struggling in the bedding, his body unnaturally hot and flushed.

"Gotta get up," he said thickly.

She pressed him back to the mattress. "No," she told him. "You rest. I'll get it."

His pale eyes were unfocused as he looked up at her.

"Trust me," she admonished him, swinging her feet off the bed. "I've got this."

She closed and locked the door behind her just in case he didn't obey her. Wavering on her feet, her head pounding and her vision blurring, she made her way to the front door.

When she peered out around the sheer curtain on the window, she saw the local policeman, Captain Carruthers.

Just as she reached for her waistband, he made eye contact with her. No weapon, and he'd seen her. Trapped, she turned the doorknob.

~end Chapter 14

E/N: Sorry, AlphaNtu, had to go there...


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15:

In the past, Clarice had been contemptuous of how easily even the most bold and arrogant criminals crumbled when cornered in an interrogation room. Now as she had a watchful investigator before her, she yearned for even a quarter of Doctor Lecter's sociopathic ability to face questioning.

The local police captain stood in the middle of their living room, looking around. She knew exactly what techniques he was using; keeping his breathing measured, slowing his blinking, and his weight settled in his large boots. Their home had become as uncomfortable as the tiny room where she'd sweat a perp.

Only she was the suspect now. She couldn't keep her eyes from shifting toward Lecter's bedroom. Her pulse thudded in the angry wounds on her face. Her respiration was harsh and loud in the silent house.

"Are you a'right, Miz Lambert?" Captain Carruthers asked.

"'course not," Clarice gasped. "I'm so upset, with the world goin' crazy and all-"

He nodded in agreement, but his gaze were still all-seeing, focusing on her bruised face.

She couldn't stop her hand from fluttering to her discolored and swollen cheek.

"Is your husband around?" Carruthers asked casually but the words sounded like an accusation. He gaze roamed over Lecter's painting of Clarice with the lamb on the wall.

She looked toward the bedroom. Her fear was useful at the moment. She channeled it into her role as the abused, downtrodden wife.

"Ye'sir. He's restin' right now."

"Kinda late in the day to be sleepin' isn't it?" the policeman asked.

She showed the whites of her eyes. "Like everyone, he's been overcome!" she protested. "He just had too much to drink...And needed a nap."

"Sure, sure." Carruthers rubbed the back of his neck.

She couldn't count on Lecter staying in his room for much longer. "Did you come by for somethin' in particular?" she asked, hoping to move the policeman along.

He hooked his thumbs in his thick holster belt. "Yes, ma'am. Miz Brocker has reported her husband missin'."

Clarice didn't have to act for her puzzlement. "Who?"

"Sam Brocker. He's gone missing, it seems," explained Carruthers.

"Can't he'p you out," she said stubbornly. "Don't even know him. We don't mix much."

"He's your neighbor-"

She creased her brow. "Oh...him. I guess he came by once to say hi when we first moved in." She lifted her shoulders again. "I think my husband goes to church with him, but I mostly stay home." She knew the best deceptions kept as close to the truth as possible.

"Could I speak to Mr. Lambert?" Carruthers asked.

She winced. That didn't go as she wanted.

"Really, I can't get him up. He'll be so mad-"

"I can talk to him alone," offered Carruthers, taking a step toward the bedroom.

She grabbed his arm. "No, please!" she hissed. "Please-"

"Mrs. Lambert-"

"You gotta leave," she sobbed, funneling all her fear and anxiety into her performance. "I swear, the last time we saw him was church Sunday before last-"

Carruthers relented. "All right, all right."

She sagged with relief. He gripped her hand and her head shot up. He'd pressed a business card in her palm.

"If you need to tell me anything...About Mr. Brocker, just call. Anytime," Carruthers said as he made his way to the door.

"Of course," she babbled, relief sufficing her exhausted body. She locked the door behind the policeman.

Rushing to the computer room, she grabbed a handgun from case, feeling better as soon as the weapon's heavy weight settled in her palm.

The doctor was calling from his bedroom. She opened the door, trying to smile.

"Clarice, what's going on?" He had managed to stand, clinging to the bedpost, but was a frightening blue shade, his skin so translucent that the white bandages stood out sharp relief.

She hurried to him, coaxing him to sit on the mattress. "It's all fine now," she promised him.

"Who was there?"

"The police, Captain Carruthers-"

He struggled to rise again. She pressed him down gently and was terrified that he sat without protest. She'd never seen Hannibal Lecter like this. His face was blazing hot under his bandage and his eyes glassy.

She filled the water glass and made him drink as much as he could. "H, we've got to get you to a doctor-"

He ignored her. "What did Carruthers want?"

"He was looking for Sam Brocker," she admitted.

"Why?"

"His wife's reported him missing." She refilled the glass and made him drink more water. It seemed to be working; color had returned to his face.

"But no one's reported Michelley?" he asked.

"God, you're right." She collapsed onto the bed beside him. Overcome by events, she was missing so many things. "Her family hasn't called in her disappearance? Why not?"

"They don't want anyone to know?" he suggested.

"I can't imagine Granny Kreet wouldn't care-" She turned to face him, but his gaze remained on his empty glass which he cradled in his lap.

"So what happened?" she wanted to know. "You had Michelley's body-"

"I found her in the back field." He placed the glass on the beside table and put his hands on his thighs.

"She was already dead?" Clarice asked carefully.

He finally looked at her. "She was still breathing. But let me assure you, my dear, I only eased her suffering. If she had survived, it would have been no life worth living. I was not responsible for her death, though, in my mind."

It was Clarice whose gaze dropped first. "Okay," she said, low.

"I believe our killer enjoys marking his territory with these bodies and keeping his trophies close so that he may visit them and relive the experience of the murder. It just happens that Michelley had not died of her injuries and was trying to crawl to the house when I discovered her."

Clarice caught something that he said. "Bodies?"

"There's another young woman's remains in the woods," he admitted. "I believe it's Sam Brocker's sister-in-law who went missing last year."

She crossed her arms. "Is there anything else you're keeping from me?"

"More bodies? No," he said with a flash of his dark humor.

"H, we have to be honest with each other," she lectured. "You can see where keeping the truth from each other has gotten us; nothin' but trouble."

His laugh was rough as he pried one of her hands loose to grasp it. "You've reminded me why I love you."

She only pursed her lips as a response. "I'm serious."

"So am I." He took a shaky breath. "We've got to get out of here-" Squeezing her fingers, he said: "The killer wasn't Sam, I'm sure of it, and thus will come looking for his trophy."

"I'll stop anyone," she said, patting the gun at her waist. "But you have to rest. That's the only way that you'll get well."

"The police will return. Surely they'll search the river for Brocker's body," he added as though she'd said nothing, but when he tried to stand, fell awkwardly back to the mattress.

"Lie down. Just lie down," she pleaded, but was then terrified when he did. She helped him under the covers, touching his heated skin lightly, wanting to find some spot that didn't seem to be fighting infection.

He suddenly grabbed the gun from her waistband, his eyes feverish.

"H-"

"Leave this with me," he said thickly. "I need to be ready. They're not going to take me alive."

"It's not going to come to that," she insisted, taking the weapon from his slack hand and lying it on the bedside table.

"If they capture us, we'll never see each other again."

Cradling his left hand, her fingers tracing the scar at his thumb, she could only nod.

"I can't live that sort of existence, Clarice. You built your prison well, my dear."

"Don't think like that," she whispered. "They won't get us. Not if have a breath in my body."

"What's happened with the attacks?" he asked. "Perhaps the authorities are distracted enough for us to move freely out of the country."

"I'll check," she said quickly, clinging onto any hope. He relaxed at her assurance.

"Drink some more water first," she urged, refilling the glass and bringing it to his lips. With only a slight grumble, he obeyed, draining the glass for her.

As she stood, she noticed the sheet hanging over the bed for the first time. Tugging it down, she gazed on the passionate image etched across the rough plaster of the swan and Leda with her face.

"You dirty old man," she said with a shake of her head, but when she looked down at Lecter, he appeared to have fallen back to sleep. She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, her brow furrowing at the heat radiating from his skin.

In the computer room, she turned on the TV, half-listening to the repetitive reports as she retrieved another handgun for herself.

"It's believed the attacks were planned by the Saudi-born terrorist, Osama Bin Laden-"

Her head snapped around. The screen showed Bin Laden's photograph as one of the lineup from the FBI's top ten most wanted...And Lecter's mugshot was right next to it. Sagging against the desk, she tried to catch her breath. Surely anyone who'd met Don Lambert was too focused on Bin Laden to notice the resemblance to their neighbor-

But the doctor was right; they had to leave as soon as possible. Until then, she needed to strengthen the security on their home and assure their escape routes were set. Ignoring her own throbbing head, she went to work.

x

Clarice helped the doctor to the bathroom, although he made her wait outside while he took care of his needs. Only then did he allow her inside to change his bandages.

"What is the news?" he asked as she peeled the puss-crusted cotten away from his festering wounds.

"This is bad, H," she said, avoiding his question. "Should I scrape off some of the dead tissue?"

He would not be dissuaded. "Clarice-"

She forced a smile. "Nothing. The borders are still closed and all flights grounded."

"Damn," he growled, then winced as she slathered the ineffectual antibiotic ointment on his head wound.

"Let's get you back to bed," she said briskly. "I've got some soup heated up."

"Don't want soup..." he muttered, leaning heavily on her as they made their way back to the bedroom.

"You gotta eat."

"I should have some fresh meat. Replenish my red blood cell count." He lay on the bed with a groan.

She narrowed her eyes at him as she tugged the covers back over him. "I won't be cookin' anything like that for you. Chicken broth will get fluids in you."

But before she could leave, he pulled her down beside him. Cupping her cheek, he made her look at him.

"What?" she asked with impatience.

"You look different."

"I've been beaten like a stray dog," she reminded him. "It's the swelling."

"No, in your expression," he said, making her meet his gaze. "There's something new in your eyes."

She gave a rusty chuckle. "That's fear."

"You, Boadicea? Afraid?"

Painful as it ever was to tell this story, she explained her loss of fear ten years ago in the black dungeon of Jame Gumb. "And I just got it back at the worst time possible," she explained wryly.

Leaning into the pillows with a rasping sigh, Lecter shook his head. "No, it's not fear. It's vulnerability."

"A difference with no distinction," she protested.

"A significant distinction," he insisted gently. "Fear is a liability. To allow yourself to care for another person is..."

She jutted her chin stubbornly and he had to press it with his thumb, just to see her push back.

"...is appreciated," he finished. No, Clarice Starling would never say the words to him, but she would show her love in many ways.

As though he'd spoken aloud, she hopped up, turning her flushed face from him. "Let me get you that soup."

His eyelids fought to stay open, making her retreating form flutter like a bird's wings rapid beat. He could feel the poison winding through his bloodstream, as a snake slides along the shadowy forest floor.

He spoke to the infection, telling it to fuck off, that he had a future planned. Nothing had beaten him before and it wouldn't happen now.

Clarice found him like this, thrashing on the bed, muttering low threats, when she returned with a bowl of steaming broth.

She took a cool, damn towel and bathed his neck and chest, hoping it would calm him. His eyes snapped open and he grabbed her wrist, his grip strong. His pale gaze was unseeing.

"Hannibal-" she gasped.

He began to turn his iron fist, twisting her arm. She could feel her bones reaching a breaking point.

"Doctor Lecter, don't do this," she whispered urgently.

His smile was frightening. How many of his victims had begged him just like that?

She tried again: "H, it's Clarice."

He relaxed, the empty eyes warming. "Clarice."

"Yes." She slumped beside him.

"Clarice," he repeated. "I want to talk to you."

"We are talking, hon," she said, suddenly exhausted.

"You asked if I was one of those children."

She had no idea what he meant but didn't want to upset him. Weakness overcame her body and spirit in waves. She lay beside him on the bed and took his hand. "Yes..."

"I'm not certain of my past before the war."

Alert once more, she tilted her head to look at him. "What do you know?" she asked.

He remained on his back, staring up at the ceiling as though in a therapy session. She supposed that he was in a way.

He finally replied: "That I was about eight years old at the end of the war. I spoke German well, but I believe I learned that from my jailers."

She wanted to ask him about that comment, but let him go on.

"I spoke Italian with my mother. She was quietly beautiful; poised, yet warm. I was the pet of her children. My father-I have no clear memory of him. Large. Balding. Florid face.

Our home was in the country and he would only be there on the weekends, and then only for meal times; meals were always lovely occasions-"

"I'm sure," Clarice murmured. "You were upper-class? Perhaps nobility?"

"Yes. I remember a spacious estate, well-appointed rooms, servants-there was a coarse, raw-boned woman who was the children's nursemaid."

"But after the war, you never been unable to trace your true lineage? If the authorities sent you to America for adoption-"

"No, I could not return to my home in the immediate aftermath of the war. Perhaps you'll laugh, but I'm not even certain my name is Hannibal. One of the doctors gave me a military history book that I enjoyed immensely, particularly the exploits of the Carthaginian general.

I've wondered if I gave myself the name rather than I had recognized my birth name. When the Americans liberated the hospital I remember saying, _I am Hannibal_, clear as could be."

"You were in a German hospital?"

"Of a sort. There were other children. There were Jewish ones, kept separate from Gentiles. But none of us were allowed to leave the facility. The doctors would meet separately with one child, or a small group of us."

Cold to her bones, Clarice waited a beat before going on. She didn't want to know the answers anymore, but forced another question out. "What sorts of things happened in these sessions with the doctors?"

"I don't recall."

"Did you ask the other children what happened to them?"

"I didn't mingle."

"Have you explored the possibility that these doctors may have caused you to lose...or create memories?"

"Yes," he said. "But there's little I can do to collaborate my memories with reality if I can't trace my past."

"Is there some way we could work on discovering the truth?" Awkwardly, she added, "Once we finally get out of the U.S., we have all the time in the world...and all the world to search."

He shook his head. "I did go to Lithuania after the Soviet Union dissolved, but could find nothing. The hospital was rubble and their records were gone, and without a name...Nothing."

"Perhaps now-"

He cut her off. "It is the past, Clarice. It was never important to me. But this information is my gift to you. You are the only one who knows."

She twined her fingers with his slack hand. "It sounds like...I mean, perhaps something was done to you by these doctors...That explains your behavior. We could-"

He finally looked over at her, his gaze lucid at last. "Do you believe I am somehow innocent?"

She had to admit: "No-"

"No," he said, his eyelids drifting shut. "For you, and only your possession, my dear. Promise me."

"I won't tell." She could see that he was slipping into unconsciousness rather than sleep.

"Doctor-" she whispered. He didn't respond. Crawling off the bed, she gazed down on him, her heart thundering with worry. She didn't like how his story felt as though it had been a deathbed confession.

A decision made, she left the room. She must go for help.

~ end Chapter 15

E/N: As I mentioned before, I started this story after the release of _Hannibal_ and before the next film and TV show began to fill in Hannibal Lecter's background. The books also open up a whole other realm. I decided to keep my story within the canon for SOTL/Hannibal filmverse.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16:

In the living room, Clarice hung up the phone. Then she heard the doctor calling out for her faintly.

She rushed to his room. "H, are you all right?"

He had managed to thrash to the side of the bed. "Where're you going?" he asked thickly.

She couldn't imagine how he heard her conversation but she knew it was useless to lie to him. "For help-"

"No," he demanded.

"Doctor, you're going to die-"

He fumbled for the gun on the bedside table. "Yes, I will die. Do it, my dear. I told you. You're the only one I want to kill me-"

"I am not going to do that-" She managed to yank the weapon from his trembling hand.

He fell back on the pillows, fighting for air.

She wrung out a washcloth in the bowl of water on the bedside table and wiped his face off. She'd thought that he'd lost consciousness again but his eyes suddenly snapped open.

"Run, Clarice. Run," he said clearly.

She could barely choke out, "No, I'm not goin' anywhere."

"Run," was a whisper now.

She rose from his bedside. "I'm going, but only to get help," she said as she pulled the bedding up to cover him. "I'll be back soon."

x

Clarice eased her car to a halt in front of the Kreets' dark house. The front door opened and a slight figure weighed down by a bag came through. Clarice stumbled up the dark path to meet it.

"Mrs, Kreet, thank you so much-"

"We'll need some stuff from the barn," the old woman said crisply. "Let's drive on down there."

As Clarice took her satchel and put it in the backseat, she caught the whiff of a cigarette. But when she looked around, she couldn't see anyone.

In the barn, the odor of dirty animals and their waste was overwhelming. Mrs. Kreet ignored it, and moved to the back of the ramshackled structure to a set of shelves. Clarice followed.

"Let'me see..." mused the old woman, her crooked finger scrolling across the peeling labels. The hogs in a nearby pen were snoring, not waking despite the intrusion.

"Mrs. Kreet, is this going to be safe?"

"It'll be fine," Mrs. Kreet reassured Clarice. She tucked a few bottles in her sweater's pocket. "Let's go. Doesn't' sound like there's much time."

Clarice led the way back to the car. This time, she swore that she saw the glow of a cigarette's tip in the darkness of the barnyard, but she could only worry about helping the doctor.

x.

Mrs. Kreet looked down at Lecter's prone body and shook her head. "He's bad, all right." She eased the bandage up from his forehead. "When'd he get shot?"

"Two days ago."

"Should be dead," she said with admiration.

Clarice sank to a chair, suddenly weak. She should have taken him to a hospital that first day-

Mrs. Kreet removed the bandages, ignoring Lecter's murmuring protests. "We'll have to cut off this putrid flesh. And pack 'em full of a poultice to draw out the devil."

"The devil?" Clarice's head swam and she heard herself laugh. "No hope of that."

The old woman cackled too. "We'll do what we can."

Clarice questioned her judgement at bringing her neighbor into this situation. She stood and took the woman's elbow. "Mrs. Kreet, I thank you for your help, but-"

Shrugging her off, Mrs. Kreet began unpacking her satchel. "I've seen worse. Back in the organizing days, when the company bulls would come shoot up our homes, goin' to the hospital would be a trip straight to jail to die. He'ped my mamma many a time to clean up gunshots." The old woman peeked at Clarice over her shoulder. "An' besides, gotta he'p out family, right?"

Clarice didn't know what to say to that.

"Go boil some water,girl," ordered .

When Clarice returned with two steaming kettles, the tiny woman had managed to strip Lecter and had fresh bandages laid out. She was peering at the festering wounds over the tops of her thick glasses. "Berl these tools too," she instructed, holding out a scalpel and a set of fine scissors in a claw-like hand.

Grateful to be kept busy, Clarice took them away to the kitchen. She brought back a pile of clean towels and the instruments in a pan of hot water.

After some fuss, Mrs. Kreet put on the rubber gloves that Clarice insisted that she wear, and began to work with the confidence of a surgeon. Clarice took off the shade off the bedside lamp and held the bulb close so that the other woman, her ancient eyes large behind her magnifying lenses, could clearly see where clean, fresh skin started and the infection ended.

Clarice kept blotting away blood and pus with her free hand, but took a moment to lie her palm on Lecter's forehead when he moaned her name.

"It's all right, H. We're getting you fixed up," she reassured him.

Threading a needle and then holding a flame to the point, Mrs. Kreet nodded. "We'll have him right as rain," she said.

Once she showed Clarice how she wanted the younger woman to pinch the edges of skin together, Mrs. Kreet sewed the wounds shut quickly.

"Now we'll put some of this powder on the wounds," she said, extracting a small, dirty bag from her satchel. "None of this gooey medicine. You need to draw out the heat and dry 'em up to heal."

"What is that?" Clarice grabbed the woman's thin wrist. She had finally reached the end of her trust.

"My own special potion." When Mrs. Kreet shook the fine powder out in her palm, there was a harsh, swarming odor.

"What is it?" Clarice repeated. She was suddenly remembering her grandparents' stories of witchy women of these hills.

"This and that.." Mrs. Kreet looked at the younger woman's grip on her arm. Clarice slowly let go.

The old woman raised her bushy eyebrows. Clarice nodded reluctantly; she had no other choice.

After packing the sutures with the powder, Mrs. Kreet had Clarice wrap the wounds with fresh bandages as she filled a syringe from a dusty brown bottle.

Clarice found herself snatching up the bottle and asking again, "What's this?"

"Antibiotic." Apparently magic potions wouldn't be enough.

"It says this is for swine," protested Clarice, reading the faded label.

Lecter gave a rusty chuckle, but when she looked down at him, his eyes were still closed.

"Works just as good for people."

Mrs. Kreet plunged the needle into the doctor's arm before Clarice could continue her argument. Stripping off her gloves, the old woman rose with a groan, finally belaying her age.

"Best get me back home," she said. "I'm plumb tired."

"Thank you, Mrs. Kreet. I'll want to pay you-"

Her neighbor held up her hand. "I tol' you, family does for family."

"We'll be leaving as soon as he can travel," explained Clarice. "Then the farm is yours and everything here."

The old eyes were bright and Mrs. Kreet cackled, her prune-mouth wide with humor. "Much appreciate that, hon."

In the car, relief washed over Clarice. Even if Lecter took a turn for the worse, at least she'd tried something. She hated remaining inert in a crisis.

Then the old woman spoke, causing her to yank the steering wheel. "Did the police come by your place about Sam Brocker?"

"Yeah," she said shortly.

The creaking voice in the dark said, "That boy-" Of course he would be a boy to Mrs. Kreet... "-has always been around our place. Him and my grandsons were like brothers. His mother was a slut; had no time for him. Always had men about; you know that sort."

Clarice made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat and was grateful to see the Kreets' driveway ahead. She didn't dare ask why the old woman still wasn't mentioning her granddaughter. Perhaps the missing neighbor was displacement for Mrs. Kreet's anxiety, but she had neither the time nor inclination to analyse the old woman's motives.

As though sensing her reticence, Mrs. Kreet lapsed into silence, only saying as Clarice stopped before her house, "I just hope the Cap'n stays off. It's our business, not his."

"Yes," said Clarice.

She hurried round to open the door and help the old woman out of the car and up the stoop. She looked around, breathing deep to catch any scent on the breeze, but there was no sign of the watcher.

When she came through her front door, the phone was ringing. She quickly looked at the wall clock. 4AM. When she checked the caller ID, it was the Kreet house. Thinking something was wrong, she picked up.

"Hey there," said DeWayne Kreet.

"What'd need?" she asked cautiously.

"Money, you little bitch."

Glancing toward Lecter's bedroom, Clarice said, "What're you talking about?"

"Seen the news lately, Clarice Starling?"

"I don't know what you mean." Clarice said, hopeless.

DeWayne ignored her ineffectual protests. "I want like, ten thousand dollars, to start."

She thought quickly. That was a small price to pay if he'd stay quiet long enough for them to get away. But she had to play her hand close. "I can't get that much in cash right off. I'll need to go to the bank-"

"Bank! Fuck that! You two been hiding out here for months, paying cash for everything. You gotta have the money there!"

She pitied a narrow life that couldn't imagine that an international criminal and his cohort would have more than ten thousand dollars in cash on hand, but she'd take it. She'd just keep playing it. "I'm serious, DeWayne. I'll need to sell some things-will you take the truck?"

"Fuck that!" he rasped, and she realized that he was probably keeping his voice down to not wake his grandmother. "I'll be over there in an hour. Have the money ready."

"Okay, okay," she said, trying to sound cornered. "Meet me in the barn. I can't wake him."

She listened to DeWayne's breath hitch. Yes, he was afraid of Lecter. He knew from his grandmother that the doctor was injured and felt emboldened enough to try and blackmail the weak little woman. As usual, a man was discounting her, and she would be ready.

"All right," he finally said. "An hour, at your barn."

"An hour," she echoed.

x.

As she'd waited, Clarice had sat with Lecter, wiping his face with a damp cloth.

"My dear..." he murmured once.

"I'm here."

His voice was suddenly clear. "No you aren't."

"You're dreaming," she told him. Leaning over, she pressed her lips to his cheek. She could swear that he was finally feeling less feverish. "I'm right by your side."

His breathing deepened and she had hoped that he would sleep as long as this would take.

Now she waited in the dark barn. Michelley Kreet's body was in the corner under a layer of lime and the hogs were pressing against their pen walls, demanding their breakfast with guttal insistence.

The door creaked open. "You there?" DeWayne demanded to know. His thin body was outlined in the pale morning light. She could see that he carried a long gun.

"Yes, I'm right here," she called out.

He came forward, keeping the weapon trained on her. "Let me see your hands," he ordered.

She held out her empty left hand and her right, gripping a cloth bag.

"That there the money?" he asked.

"Yes." She extended her arm toward him.

"Throw it down here," he said cautiously, pointing his weapon to the ground in front of him.

She tossed it in an easy arc. Keeping his gaze and gun on her, he crouched down and snagged the sack.

He tucked the rifle under his arm and pulled the bag open. She watched him begin to count the stacks of bills, moving to be closer to a crack in the wall for light.

He glanced at her with a smirk. "You're not looking so pretty these days," he said with faked casualness. "Git in a fight?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with," she told him.

He snickered. "Sam always did like to wallop on a woman."

"Women...Or girls?" asked Clarice, unable to contain her contempt.

DeWayne continued to count the money with painful slowness, his lips moving. "Did that doctor kill Sam?" he asked without looking up. "I heard all this shootin' the other night, and then you came and got Granny. She took her doctoring kit, so I figure someone's got some holes in them."

She blinked slowly. This man had the instinctual intelligence of a wild animal. His friend had disappeared. That friend had snooped around their place; surely DeWayne knew this. DeWayne also knew Lecter was a notorious killer, but didn't fear him today.

"Yes, we killed Sam. He's down in the river. That break you up? Granny said you two were like brothers."

He was going to kill her for murdering Sam, she might as well find out what she could.

DeWayne grinned, his tongue flickering through the gaps in his teeth like a snake smelling for a beating heart. "Yeah. We always shared our toys."

The darkness turned red for Clarice. "You shared Michelley with him?"

The tongue waggled grotesquely at her but his gaze was back on the money in his hands. "I give him a toy, he give me one."

Then his rubbery mouth twisted. "Fuck you, bitch. There's only nine here."

"What're you talkin' about?" Clarice took a step closer. "I put it all in there-"

He dropped the bag and swung up the gun. "Give me the fucking money!" he screamed.

"This money was for Granny!" insisted Clarice, fumbling at the deep pocket on her cargo pants. "I was gonna give it to Granny. I know you aren't gonna give her a dime-"

"I'm not gonna give that ol' bitch nothin'!" DeWayne slapped her shoulder with the rifle barrel. "Now give it to me!"

She pulled the stack of hundred dollar bills from her pocket, tightly rolled in a cylinder as she'd learned from drug dealers.

"Here you are," she said, firing the 9MM handgun that she'd palmed, the barrel secreted in the center of the roll. The first bullet pierced his heart, but she kept firing as his frail frame jerked like a puppet.

Stepping through the gunsmoke, she pushed aside the rifle with her toe. Grabbing DeWayne's body by hood of sweatshirt, she dragged it to where his sister lay. Suddenly exhausted, she simply rolled DeWayne to lie flat. No longer caring about the bodies being discovered, she gathered up the money and returned to the house.

As soon as she closed the front door, Lecter called out to her.

At his bedroom doorway, she forced a smile on her face. "I'm right here, H. Just went to feed the stock, clean the barn-"

Although still pale, Lecter was obviously stronger. He was propped up on the headboard, cradling an empty water glass.

"Let me get you some breakfast," she said, thrilled to see his improvement. "You need to get your strength back."

"Clarice,come here," he demanded as he put aside the glass, his gaze searching her face.

"Let me get you some more water at least," she said, her smile wavering as she hung onto the doorjamb.

"Now." He held out his arm, and his hand no longer shook.

Nervous, she eased into the room to sit on the bed beside him.

He took her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing the fingertips as he inhaled.

"Gunpowder," he stated.

She tried to smile again.

"What's happened?" he asked, his tone deceptively calm, but his grip tightened on her hand.

"I shot DeWayne Kreet. His body is in the barn," she told him.

His eyelids drifted shut, not to sleep,but to think.

"You're better already, H-"

"Mrs. Kreet came here-"

"Yes. She helped us, but I don't know how much longer we can count on her silence now that DeWayne has disappeared too."

"I see," he said. He flexed his arm, testing his strength. "I shall be ready to go in a few days."

Weakened by the good news,she sagged against him. "Thank God."

He stroked her hair, gently urging her lean on his good shoulder. "You killed that boy?" His eyes were deep blue and clear for the first time in days.

She nodded.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"That's nothing to do with it-"

"Did you?" he asked, his lips at her temple.

Her head dropped. He tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his inquiring gaze.

"Yes," she whispered, then clenched her jaw, waiting to hear him gloat in triumph.

He raised her hand to his lips again. She felt his tears on her skin.

"I am so sorry, my dear," he murmured.

~end Chapter 16


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